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SELECT 

Recitations and Readings. 



I %J 






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PREFACE. 



It has been our aim to have the "Select Recita- 
tions and Readings "not only gems of literary excellence, 
but of such pith and meaning, that the verbal construc- 
tion of the narrative or description will be as much appre- 
ciated as effectiveness of delivery. 

Much attention should be paid by readers to the choice 
of subjects. Elocutionists of equal merit are not at all 
equal in the rendition of certain pieces. A. has his favor- 
ite selections, in which he is considered unapproachable; 
and B. has his, which he has made almost his own, by his 
animation and vividness of illustration. From experience, 
or experiments before select audiences, each is aware that 
should he encroach upon the other's especial programme, 
he would suffer by contrast. 

It follows, then, that if a speaker has made a wise selec- 
tion for the display of his elocutionary talents — a selection 
not only suited to his style and ability, but likely to be 
intrinsically interesting to his audience — the power to 
enunciate distinctly, understandingly, deliberately, and 
elucidate the author's meaning with discriminating intona- 
tion and emphasis, as well as appropriate gestures, will 
make his recitation a success. 

To be an entertaining elocutionist, the speaker must 
thoroughly comprehend his subject, and be in sympathy 



4: PREFACE. 

with it; lie must feel what he portrays, like an able actor, 
and ntter his words with such energy, spirit, and distinct- 
ness that they cannot be misunderstood, and with an 
earnestness certain to command attention. 

Reading in public is beneficial in many ways. It gives 
a young person confidence, so that should* occasion arise, 
he will have courage to address an assemblage; it improves 
the memory, and inspires a taste for literature; it induces 
the speaker to closely study the author's meaning — that he 
may thoroughly appreciate and understand the thought 
which is merely suggested, but not expressed; it gives com- 
mand of language, for it must be admitted that the fre- 
quent use of elegant diction, the words of the acknowl- 
edged masters of literature and eloquence, is certain to 
make the speaker graceful, fluent, and convincing, not only 

on the rostrum, but in the ordinary intercourse and con- 
versation of life. 

The subjects in the "Select Recitations and Read- 
ings " take a wide scope; they are serious and pleasant, 
tragic and heroic, droll and pathetic, ranging "from grave 
to gay, from lively to severe." They comprise some of the 
productions of the master minds of the world — poets, 
orators, statesmen and philosophers; and they are adapted 
for young or old, for parlor entertainments, for school ex- 
hibitions, or for public occasions. T. C. Gr. 



CONTENTS 



PAGE. 

Advice to a Young Man Ben Jonson 171 

A Free Seat Anonymous 134 

American Flag. Joseph Rodman Drake 34 

Apostrophe to Water Judge Arrington 10 

Battle of Fontenoy Thomas Davis 161 

Bivouac of the Dead Theodore O'Hara 156 

Blind Boy's Speech Park Benjamin . . 76 

Cane-Bottoined Chair Wm. M. Thackeray 128 

Clown's Baby Margaret Yandegrift 130 

Come Back Bill Xye 11 

Dirge For a Soldier George H. Boker 89 

Drones of the Community Percy Bysshe Shelley 164 

Dying Soldier Richard Coe 105 

Field of Waterloo Byron 102 

Filial Piety. Richard Brinslcy Sheridan. . 88 

Freshman's Story Max Adeler 53 

Friend of the Red Man Max Adeler 7 

Gamblers Wife E. R. Coates 159 

Guilt Cannot Keep Its Own Secret Dan iel Webster 14 

Hour of Death Felicia Hemans 112 

Housekeeper's Soliloquy Mrs. F. D. Gage 113 

How a Man Gets Up in the Morning..jGr«fe Thorn 15 

Importance of the Union Daniel Webster 32 

Just One Azcdea E. Osgood 57 

Katie Lee and Willie Grey J. H. Pixley 92 

Laugh on, Laugh on, To-day Winthrojj M. Praed 79 

Lines on a Skeleton Anonymous 51 

Little Sister of Charity Francis S. Smith. 36 

Lord of Burleigh Alfred Tennyson 98 

Lost Mother-in-Law .Max Adeler 107 

Men to Make a State. . George W. Doane 67 

Mother and Child Nelly B. Simmons 70 

Mrs. Grubbs' Railroad Claim Charles W. Foster 25 

Nature's Nobleinec Martin F. Tupper 166 

Never Despair Wm. G. Richards 170 

Nothing But Leaves Lucy Evelina Ackerman 78 



6 CONTENTS. 

PAGE. 

Ode To My Little Son Thomas Hood 59 

Old Actor's Story George B. Sims. .. 122 

Onward, Onward Linnces Banks 172 

Pauper's Death-Bed Caroline Bowles Southey 104 

Persevere John Brougham 90 

Procrastination Charles Mackay 1 69 

Psalm of Marriage Phoebe Gary 119 

Pill From the To wn Pump Nathaniel Hawthorne 72 

Ping out the Old Year Alfred Tennyson. 83 

Ruth B. K. Munkittrick 49 

Santa Claus' Stocking Francis S. Smith 84 

Sketch of Bonaparte Charles Phillips 18 

Some Time Eugene Field 133 

Song of the Camp .- Bayard Taylor 151 

Song of the Canteen Charles G. Halpine 24 

Speak No 111 Charles Swain 58 

Spiritual Freedon— What is it? William Ellery Channing. . . 81 

St. Leon's Toast Walter Scott 13G 

Surprise Party Francis S. Smith 01 

Taking Mrs. Jones' Census Max Adeler 94 

Tlianatopsis William Cullen Bryant 46 

The Bible Donoso Cortes 153 

The Brave at Home T. Buchanan Bead 118 

The Charity Dinner Litchfield Mosely 142 

The Cynic Henry Ward Beecher 173 

The Heavens Declare the Glory of 

God Joseph Addison 77 

The Hour Glass John Quincy Adams 177 

The Jiners Anonymous 138 

The Late Mr. McGlucken Max Adeler 21 

THE LOAN OF A LOVER J. B. Planche 179 

The Needle Samuel Woodworth ,158 

The Pilgri ins Edward Everett 101 

The Traitor's Death-Bed George Lippard 115 

The Two Glasses Ella Wheeler Wilcox 149 

The Water Mill D. C. McCallum 120 

The World For Sale Ralph Hoyt 167 

Tom's Wife - - - W. H Harrison 152 

Tribute to Genius and Labor Epes Sargent 176 

Tubal Cain Charles Mackay 110 

War in America Earl of Chatham 39 

What the Skipper Said Max Adeler 42 

Yankee Boy John Pierpont 175 



SELECT 

Recitations and Readings, 



NUMBER ONE. 



A FBIEND OF THE BED MAN. 

" I don't take the same view of the North American In- 
dian that most people do," said Professor Trotter, in a dis- 
cussion down at the grocery store the other night. " Now 
some think that the red man displays a want of good taste 
in declining to wash himself; but I don't. What is dirt? 
It is simply — matter — the same kind of matter that exists 
everywhere. The earth is made of- dirt; the things we eat 
are dirt, and they grow in the dirt; and when we die and 
are buried, we return again to the dirt from which we were 
made. Science says that all dirt is clean. The savage 
Indian knows this; his original mind grasps this idea; he 
has his eagle eye on science; and he has no soap. Dirt is 
warm. A layer one-sixteenth of an inch thick on a man is 
said by Professor Huxley to be as comfortable as a fifty- 
dollar suit of clothes. Why then should the child of the 
forest undress himself once a week by scraping this off, 
and expose himself to the rude blasts of winter? He has 
too much sense. His head is too level to let him take a 
square wash more than once in every two hundred years, 
and even then he don't rub hard. 



8 A FEIEND OF THE BED MAN. 

"And then in regard to his practice of eating dogs; why 
shouldn't a man eat a dog? A dog sometimes eats a man, 
and turn about is fair play. A well-digested dog stowed 
away on the inside of a Choctaw squaw, does more to ad- 
vance civilization and the Christian religion than a dog 
that barks all night in a back yard, and makes people get 
up out of bed and swear, don't it? And nothing is more 
nutritious than dog. Professor Huxley says that one 
pound of a dog's hind leg, nourishes the vital forces more 
than a wagon load of bread and corned beef. It contains 
more phosphorus and carbon. When dogs are alive they 
agree with men, and there is no reason why they shouldn't 
when they are dead. This nation will enter upon a glori- 
ous destiny when it stops raising corn and potatoes, and 
devotes itself more to growing crops of puppies. 

"Now many ignorant people consider scalping inhu- 
man. I don't. I look upon it as one of the most benefi- 
cent processes ever introduced for the amelioration of the 
sufferings of the human race. What is hair? It is an ex- 
crescence. If it grows it cost a man a great deal of money 
and trouble to keep it cut. If it falls out the man becomes 
bald, and the flies bother him. What does the Indian do % 
in this emergency? With characteristic sagacity he lifts 
out the whole scalp, and ends the annoyance and expense. 
And then look at the saving from other sources. Professor 
Huxley estimates that two thousand pounds of the food 
that a man eats in a year go to nourish his hair. Eemove 
that hair and you save that much food. If I had my way, 
I would have every baby scalped when it is vaccinated, 
as a measure of political economy. That would be states- 
manship. I have a notion to organize a political party on 
the basis of baby-scalping, and to go on the stump to ad- 
vocate it. If people had any sense, I might run into the 
Presidency as a baby-scalper. 

"And as for the matter of the Indians wearing rings 
through their noses, I don't see why people complain of 



A FRIEND OF THE KED MAN. 9 

that. Look at the advantage it gives a man when he wants 
to hold on to anything. If a hurricane strikes an Indian, 
ail he does is to hook his nose-ring over a twig of a tree, 
and there he is, fast and sound. And it gives him some- 
thing to rest his pipe on when he smokes, while, in the 
case of a man with a pug, the ring helps to jam his pro- 
boscis down, and to make it a Koman nose. But I look at 
it from a sanitary point of view. The Indian suffers from 
catarrh. Now what will cure that disease? Metal in the 
nose in which electricity can be collected. Professor Hux- 
ley says that the electricity in a metal ring two inches in 
diameter will cure more catarrh than all the medicine be- 
tween here and Kansas. The child of nature with wonder- 
ful instinct has perceived this, and he teaches us a lesson. 
When we, with our higher civilization, begin to throw 
away finger-rings and ear-rings, and to wear riugs in our 
noses, w r e will be a hardier race. I am going to direct the 
attention of Congress to the matter. 

" Then take the objections that are urged to the Indian 
practice of driving a stake through a man, and building a 
bonfire on his stomach. What is their idea? Thev want 
to hold that man down. If they sit on him they would 
obstruct the view of him. They put a stake through him, 
and there he is secured by simple means, and if it is 
driven in carefully, it may do him good. Professor Hux- 
ley says that he once knew a man who was cured of yellow 
jaundice by falling on a pale-fence, and having a sharp- 
pointed paling run into him. And the bonfire may be 
equally as healthy. When a man's stomach is out of order, 
you put a mustard plaster on it. Why? To warm it. 
The red man has the same idea. He takes a few fagots, 
lights them, and apjDlies them to the stomach. It is a cer- 
tain cure. Professor Huxley " 

" Oh, dry up about Professor Huxley!" exclaimed Meigs, 
the storekeeper, at this juncture. 

" Wh-wh-what d' you say?" asked the professor. 



10 APOSTROPHE TO WATER. 

"I say, you stop blowing about Professor Huxley, and 
you'd better shut up any way. I have bad enoughtof gab 
from you to night." 

Then the professor rose sadly, reached over for a 
cracker, wiped his nose thoughtfully on his sleeve, and 
sauntered across the street to the bar-room to see if he 
could find anybody to ask him to take a drink. 

Max Adeler. 



APOSTKOPHE TO WATER 

In the early days of Texas an invitation had been issued by Paul Den- 
ton, a Western missionary, to several of the residents of one of the settle- 
ments, to attend a barbecue, and they were promised an abundance of 
food, and " the oest of liquor: 1 

When they came, with the expectation of having a grand carouse, they 
were amazed to learn that although there was plenty to eat, there was 
not a drop of liquor. This is the story as narrated in a sketch from the 
vivid and poetic pen of Judge Arrington, whose nom de plume was 
Charles Summerfleld. When the Texans clamored for liquor, Paul Denton 
burst forth with the appended eloquent apostrophe to water: 

Look at that, ye thirsty ones of earth! Behold it! See 
its purity! See how it glitters, as if a mass of liquid gems! 
It is a beverage that was brewed by the hand of the Al- 
mighty himself. Not in the simmering still or smoking 
fires, choked with poisonous gases, and surrounded by the 
stench and sickening odors and rank corruptions, doth our 
Father in Heaven prepare the precious essence of life, the 
pare cold water, but in the green glade and glassy dell, 
where the red deer wanders and the child loves to play! 
There God brews it, and down, down in the deepest val- 
leys, where the fountains murmur, and the rills sing; and 
high upon the tall mountain-tops, where the naked granite 
glitters like gold in the sun; where the storm-clouds 
brood and the thunder-storms crash; and away out on the 
billowy sea, where the hurricanes howl music, and the big 
waves roar the chorus, chanting the march of God — there 
He brews it, that beverage of life — health-giving water. 



COME BACK. 11 

And everywhere it is a thing of beauty — gleaming in 
the dew-drop, singing in the summer rain, shining in the 
ice-gem, till the trees all seemed turned into living jewels 
— spreading a golden vail over the setting sun, or a white 
gauze around the midnight moon — sporting in the catar- 
act, sleeping in the glaciers, dancing in the hail showers — 
folding its bright curtain softly about the wintry world, 
and weaving the many colored iris, that seraph's zone of 
the sky, whose roof is the sunbeam of heaven, all check- 
ered over with celestial flowers, by the mystic hand of 
rarefaction — still always it is beautiful, that blessed life- 
water! No poison bubbles on the brink! Its foam brings 
no sadness or murder; no blood-stains in its limpid glass; 
broken-hearted wives, pale widows, and starving orphans 
shed no tears in its depths; no drunkard's shrinking ghost, 
from the grave, curses it in words of eternal desjDair. Beau- 
tiful, pure, blessed, and glorious! give me forever the 
sparkling, cold water! Judge Abkexgton. 



COME BACK. 

Editor New Yoek Weekly: 

Dear Sir: — I wish that you would insert the following 
personal in your valuable and widely read paper: 

"PERSONAL— WILL THE YOUNG WOMAN WHO 
-*- used to cook in our family, and who went away, ten 
pounds of sugar, and five and a half pounds of tea 
ahead of the game, please come back, and all will be for- 
given. 

If she cannot return, will she please write, stating her 
present address, and also give her reasons for shutting up 
the cat in the refrigerator when she went away? 

If she will only return, we will try to forget the past, 
and think only of the glorious present, and the bright, 
bright future. 



12 COME BACK. 

Come back, Sarah, and jerk the waffle-iron for us once 
more. 

Your manners are peculiar, but we yearn for your 
doughnuts, and your style of streaked cake suits us ex- 
actly. 

You may keep the handkerchiefs and the collars, and we 
will not refer to the dead past. 

We have arranged it so that when you snore, it will not 
disturb the night police, and if you do not like our chil- 
dren, we will send them away. 

We realize that you do not like children very well, and 
our children especially gave you much pain because they 
were not so refined as you were. 

We have often wished, for your sake, that we had never 
had any children; but so long as they are in our family, 
the neighbors will rather expect us to take care of them. 

Still, if you insist "upon it, we will send them away. We 
don r t want to seem overbearing with our servants. 

We would be willing, also, to give you more time for men- 
tal relaxation than you had before. The intellectual strain 
incident to the life of one who makes gravy for a lost and 
undone world must be very great, and tired nature must 
at last succumb. We do not want you to succumb. If 
any one has got to succumb, let us do it. 

All we ask is that you will let us know when you are go- 
ing away, and leave the crackers and cheese where we can 
find them. 

It was rather rough on us to have you go away when 
we had guests in the house, but if you had not taken the 
key to the cooking department, we could have worried 
along. 

You ought to let us have company at the house some- 
times, if we let you have company when you want to. 
Still, you know best, perhaps. You are older than we 
are, and you have seen more of the world. 

We miss your gentle admonitions, and your stern re- 



COME BACK. v 13 

proofs sadly. Come back and reprove us again. Come 
back and admonish us once more, at so much per admon- 
ish and groceries. 

We will agree to let you select the tender part of the 
steak, and such fruit as seems to strike you favorably, just 
as we did before. We did not like it when you were here, 
but that is because we were young, and did not know what 
the customs were. 

If a life-time devoted to your welfare can obliterate the 
injustice we have done to you, we will be glad to yield it 
to you. 

If you could suggest a good place for us to send the 
children, where they would be well taken care of, and 
where they would not interfere with some ether cook who 
is a friend of yours, we would be glad to have you write 
us. 

My wife says that she hopes you will feel perfectly free 
to use the piano whenever you are lonely or sad, and when 
you or the bread feel depressed, you will be welcome to 
come into the parlor and lean up against either one of us 
and sob. 

We know that when you were with us before, we were 
a little reserved in our manner toward you, but if you come 
back it; will be different. 

We will introduce you to more of our friends this time, 
and we hope you will do the same by us. Young people 
are apt to get above their business, and we admit that we 
were wrong. 

Come back and oversee our fritter bureau once more. 

Take the portfolio of our interior department. 

Try to forget our former coldness. 

Return, oh, wanderer, return! Bill Nye. 



14 GUILT CANNOT KEEP ITS OWN SECKET. 

GUILT CANNOT KEEP ITS OWN SECKET. 

An aged man, without an enemy in the world, in his own 
house, and in his own bed, is made the victim of a butch- 
erly murder, for mere pay. The fatal blow is given! and 
the victim passes, without a struggle or a motion, from 
the repose of sleep to the repose of death! It is the assas- 
sin's purpose to make sure work. He explores the wrist 
for the pulse. He feels for it, and ascertains that it beats 
no longer! It is accomplished. The deed is done. He 
retreats, retraces his steps to the window, passes out 
through it as he came in, and escapes. He has done the 
murder; — no eye has seen him, no ear has heard him. The 
secret is his own — and it is safe! 

Ah! gentlemen, that was a dreadful mistake. Such a 
secret can be safe nowhere. The whole creation of God 
has neither nook nor corner where the guilty can bestow 
it, and say it is safe. Not to speak of that eye which 
glances through all disguises, and beholds everything as 
in the splendor of noon, such secrets of guilt are never 
safe from detection, even by men. True it is, generally 
speaking, that " murder will out." True it is, that Provi- 
dence hath so ordained, and doth so govern things, that 
those who break the great law of Heaven, by shedding 
man's blood, seldom succeed in avoiding discovery. Es- 
pecially, in a case exciting so much attention as this, dis- 
covery must come, and will come, sooner or later. 

A thousand eyes turn at once to explore every man, 
every thing, every circumstance, connected with the time 
and place; a thousand ears catch every whisper; a thous- 
and excited minds intensely dwell on the scene, shedding 
all their light, and ready to kindle the slightest circum- 
stance into a blaze of discovery. 

Meantime, the guilty soul cannot keep its own secret. 
It is false to itself; or, rather, it feels an irresistible im- 
pulse of conscience to be true to itself. It labors under 



HOW A MAN GETS UP IN THE MORNING. 15 

its guilty possession, and knows not what to do with it. 
The human heart was not made for the residence of such 
an inhabitant. It finds itself preyed on by a torment, 
which it dares not acknowledge to God or man. A vulture 
is devouring it, and it can ask no sympathy or assistance, 
either from Heaven or earth. 

The secret which the murderer possesses soon comes to 
possess him; and, like the evil spirits of which we read, it 
overcomes him, and leads him whithersoever it will. He 
feels it beating at his heart, rising to his throat, and de- 
manding disclosure. He thinks the whole world sees it in 
his face, reads it in his eyes, and almost hears its workings 
in the very silence of his thoughts. It has become his 
master. It betrays his discretion, it breaks down his cour- 
age, it conquers his prudence. 

When suspicions, from without, begin to embarrass him, 
and the net of circumstances to entangle him, the fatal 
secret struggles, with still greater violence, to burst forth. 
It must be confessed — it will be confessed — there is no 
refuge from confession but suicide — and suicide is confes- 
sion! Daniel Webster. 



HOW A MAN GETS UP IN THE MORNING. 

Generally his wife tells him it is time to get up. 

If she be in earnest, she emphasizes the assertion by a 
dig of her elbow in the direction of his ribs, and a flop 
which draws the blankets of! his side of the bed onto her 
side. 

He feels the cold air rush in, and knows something is 
the matter. He is still half asleep, and does not fully un- 
derstand whether it is evening or morning. He wishes 
Eliza Ann would let him alone, and suffer him to go asleep; 
he doesn't want to be waked up in the middle of the 



16 HOW A MAN GETS UP IN THE MOBNING. 

night, and his head aching so badly. A man's head al- 
ways aches when he does not want to be meddled with. 

When at last he is brought to see that the sun is shining 
in at the window, he rises up a foot or so from the pillow, 
stares out of the window, yawns a half-dozen times, 
scratches his head vigorously, draws up his legs, stretches, 
grunts, says he is tired, and lies down again. 

His wife comes to the rescue again, and by and by he 
manages to get up on his elbow, and look around the room 
as if he had never been there before. He has to form the 
acquaintance of all the furniture and fixtures over again. 
He looks at the pictures, and comments on the way that 
new chromo dangles over the fire-place. His wife hung it 
there herself, and she defends its right to dangle. He op- 
poses, and argues to show he is right, and then he changes 
the subject, and wonders if the seven o'clock bell has 
struck. All this is to gain time — time to lie in bed a little 
longer. 

After a while he puts out one foot, by way of a feeler. 
The cold air strikes it, and he draws it back, and his wife 
bounces up into a heap, and sharply tells him "she does 
wish he'd keep his icy feet away from her!" She shivers 
away to the marrow of her backbone. And as no loving 
husband who has sworn at the altar to love, cherish, and 
protect the woman of his bosom is justified in causing the 
marrow in her backbone to shiver, he withdraws that cold 
foot from her vicinity, and by the way of experiment puts 
the other foot out of bed. 

Then he shivers, and cries "ugh!" and yawns again, and 
scratches the portion of his head which he did not hit be- 
fore, and he stretches, and rubs his nose, and wonders 
what has become of his stockings. He left 'em right be- 
side the bed the night before. He is positive about it. 
And as it is a well-known fact that a man always knows 
where he left his clothes when undressing, he finds one of 
his stockings in the wood-box, and the other on the 



HOW A MAN GETS tJP IN THE MORNING. 17 

bureau, under bis wife's false hair and the dirty towel. 
Nothing like order in tbis world; and if tbe average man 

is not orderly, then who is? 

"While be is getting into bis pantaloons a button comes 
off. One always does. And it flies away to nowbere, and 
our man gets down on all fours, and looks under tbe bed, 
and up in tbe wall-basket, and into tbe water-pitcher, and 
all around for it, in vain. 

" 'Lizy Ann!" be exclaims; "I've lost off a button. I 
want it sewed on. I can't dress without it." 

"Do wait till I get up!" says 'Lizy Ann, wbo is now 
deep in tbe mysteries of a new novel, wliicb sbe lias just 
taken from under her pillow, and is of course impatient at 
being disturbed. " A man is alwavs in want!" 

" Well, I've got to bave tbis button sewed on," says be, 
tugging away at bis suspenders. 

And 'Lizy Ann reaches out and gets a needle and thread, 
and fishes up a button from her work-basket, and the sew- 
ing on of the button is an accomplished fact. And by the 
time that is done, it is discovered that a button is missing 
from bis shirt. Nothing can be done until that button is 
fixed. Then his collar must be pinned down behind, so it 
won't "ride up." 

Then be calls on "Lizy Ann for a handkerchief. Sbe 
tells him his handkerchiefs are right there in the second 
drawer. 

He pulls the drawer out, away out, for a man can never 
do anything witb a drawer unless it is away out, and be 
tumbles over tbe things it contains, and latches out a 
shirt or two, and jams tbe drawer back witb a stocking 
banging over tbe edge, and a neck-tie caught in tbe back, 
and wonders what does make that drawer run so hard, and 
says there are no handkerchiefs there. And then be pulls 
out another drawer, and turns over a night-gown or two, 
and upsets a box of powder, and piles ribbons, and laces, 
and crimping-pins out on tbe floor, and gets his foot in 



i8 SKETCH OF BONAPARTE. 

his wife's work-basket, and unravels half a yard of that 
lovely edging she is knitting, and emphatically declares he 
wishes his things could be put where they belong. 

Then 'Lizy Ann gets out of bed, and goes to his drawer 
and brings to view a pile of handkerchiefs which he has 
tumbled over, and gives it as her opinion that a man 
doesn't know anything. 

Then he goes to the window and throws that open, and 
lets in the cold air, and tells 'Lizy Ann to hurry up and 
dress and the cold air won't hurt her, when she expostu- 
lates, and pleads cold feet and neuralgia. 

And he slops the wall-paper in washing, and leaves hair 
in the comb, and gets hair oil on her best lace bow, and 
spatters his boot blacking over the carpet, and knocks the 
skin off his knuckles against the sink, and has to call on 
'Lizy Ann for sticking plaster and arnica, and makes him- 
self a nuisance generally; but he is a man, and was born 
with a man's carelessness within him, and she knows it, 
and would not have him changed into a woman for all the 
world. Kate Thoen. 



SKETCH OF BONAPAKTE. 

Napoleon Bonaparte is fallen! We may now pause be- 
fore that splendid prodigy, which towered among us like 
some ancient ruin, whose frown terrified the glance its 
magnificence attracted. Grand, gloomy, and peculiar, he 
sat upon the throne, a sceptered hermit, wrapt in the soli- 
tude of his own originality. A mind, bold, independent, 
and decisive — a will, despotic in its dictates — an energy 
that distanced expedition, and a conscience pliable to every 
touch of interest, marked the outline of this extraordinary 
character — the most extraordinary, perhaps, that, in the 
annals of this world, ever rose, or reigned, or fell. 



SKETCH OF NAPOLEON. 19 

Flung into life, in the midst of a revolution that quick- 
ened every energy of a people who acknowledge no supe- 
rior, he commenced his course, a stranger by birth, and a 
scholar by charity! With no friend but his sword, and no 
fortune, but his talents, he rushed in the list where rank, 
and wealth, and genius had arrayed themselves, and com- 
petition fled from him as from the glance of destiny. He 
knew no motive but interest — he acknowledged no criterion 
but success — he worshiped no God but ambition, and, 
with an eastern devotion, he knelt at the shrine of his 
idolatry. 

Subsidiary to this, there was no creed that he did not 
profess, there was no opinion that he did not promulgate; 
in the hope of a dynasty, he upheld the Crescent; for the 
sake of a divorce, he bowed before the Cross; the orphan of 
St. Louis, he became the adopted child of the Republic; 
and, with a parricidal ingratitude, on the ruins both of the 
throne and tribune, he reared the throne of his despotism. 
A professed Catholic, he imprisoned the Pope; a pretended 
patriot, he impoverished the country; and, in the name of 
Brutus, he grasped without remorse, and wore without 
shame, the diadem of the Caesars! Through this pantomime 
of policy, fortune played the clown to his caprices. At 
his touch, crowns crumbled, beggars reigned, systems 
vanished, the wildest theories took the color of his whim, 
and all that was venerable, and all that was novel, changed 
places with the rapidity of a drama. 

Even apparent defeat assumed the appearance of victory 
— his flight from Egypt confirmed his destiny — ruin itself 
only elevated him to empire. But, if his fortune was 
great, his genius was transcendent; decision flashed upon 
his counsels; and it was the same to decide and to perform. 
To inferior intellects his combinations appeared perfectly 
impossible, his plans perfectly impracticable; but, in his 
hands, simplicity marked their development, and success 
vindicated their adoption. His person partook the char- 



20 SKETCH OF NAPOLEON. 

acter of his mind — if the one never yielded in the cabinet, 
the other never bent in the field. Nature had no obstacle 
that he did not surmount — space no opposition that he did 
not spurn; and whether amid Alpine rocks, Arabian sands, 
or Polar snows, he seemed proof against peril, and em- 
powered with ubiquity! 

The whole continent trembled at beholding the audacity 
of his designs, and the miracle of their execution. Skepti- 
cism bowed to the prodigies of his performance; romance 
assumed the air of history; nor was there aught too incred- 
ible for belief, or too fanciful for expectation, when the 
world saw a subaltern of Corsica waving his imperial flag 
over her most ancient capitals. All the visions of antiquity 
became commonplaces in his contemplation; kings were 
his people — nations were his outposts; and he disposed of 
courts, and crowns, and camps, and churches, and cabi- 
nets, as if they were titular dignitaries of the chess-board! 
Amid all these changes, he stood immutable as adamant. 

It mattered little whether in the field or in the drawing- 
room — with the mob or the levee — wearing the Jacobin 
bonnet or the iron crown — banishing a Braganza, or es- 
pousing a Hapsburg — dictating peace on a raft to the Czar 
of Russia, or contemplating defeat at the galJows of Leip- 
sic — he was still the same military despot! 

In this wonderful combination, his affectations of litera- 
ture must not be omitted. The jailer of the press, he af- 
fected the patronage of letters — the proscriber of books, 
he encouraged philosophy — the persecutor of authors and 
the murderer of printers, he yet pretended to be the }3rotec- 
tor of learning! Such a medley of contradictions, and, 
at the same time, such an individual consistency, were 
never united in the same character. A royalist, — a repub- 
lican, and an emperor — a Mohammedan — a Catholic and a 
patron of the synagogue — a subaltern and a sovereign — a 
traitor and a tyrant — a Christian and an infidel — he was, 
through all his vicissitudes, the same stern, impatient, in- 



THE LATE ME. m'gLUCKEX. 21 

flexible original — the same mysterious, incorajn-ehensible 
self — the man without a model, and without a shadow. 

Charles Phillips. 



THE LATE MR McGLUCKEX. 

"Mr. Peters," said the editor to the new reporter, "you 
say you were personally acquainted with the deceased, Mr. 
McGlucken?" 

"Yes, sir." 

"And you are certain of the facts that you have given 
in his obituary notice?" 

" Well, tolerably certain." 

"Because in describing his appearance you say that he 
had a Pioinan nose, and only one eye, and that there was a 
wart upon it. Do I understand you that the wart was 
upon the Roman nose or the eye?" The expression is not 
perfectly clear. 

" The nose, of course." 

"You remark, also, that Mr. McGlucken's nose was 
badly injured in the railroad accident at Newark in conse- 
quence of the bridge giving way. Now, I don't catch the 
drift of this. Do you mean that the railroad accident re- 
sulted from the breaking of the bridge of Mr. McGluck- 
en's nose, or that the bridge of his nose gave way after the 
accident, or that the nose was hurt by the railroad bridge 
giving way, or how? Y T ou are not definite enough." 

"I refer to the railroad bridge." 

"Ah! Then you go on to say that Mr. McGlucken mar- 
ried in 1862, but that after a year of too brief hap23iness 
his wife died suddenly, lea\ing him with eight dear little 
children, the eldest of whom was but seven years of age. 
This is calculated to fill the minds of readers with perplex- 
ity. Are you sure there were eight children? And if so, 
that the 'oldest was but seven years of age?" 



22 THE LATE MR. m'GLUCKEN. 

"I forgot to state that Mrs. McGlucken had been 
married before, and that there were three sets of twins." 

"The omission is important. I notice that you say, in 
the fourth paragraph from the bottom, that McGlucken 
went to sea when he was a young man, and that his craft 
was stove at the Feejee Islands. Then immediately after- 
ward you remark that at poker he never had a rival. Now, 
I can hardly believe you mean it, and yet do you know 
that a superficial reader, glancing over your article, might 
easily get the impression that McGlucken went to sea in a 
stove, and somehow or other, managed to row himself 
ashore on the Feejee Islands with a poker. Read it over 
and see for yourself. I tell you, Mr. Peters, this kind of a 
want of definiteness won't do for a newspaper. It confuses 
people's minds, and maddens them, and brings them down 
here with murder in their hearts." 

"I admit that it is not exactly clear." 

" But this is not the worst. What do you mean when 
you say, in the fifth paragraph, that while Mr. McGlucken 
lived in Perkiomen township, he was somewhat lame for a 
few years, and that he had the largest corn in the country 
— it was more than eight feet high? Now, do you mean 
that he had a corn eight feet high, or that he had corn in 
his field eight feet high, and if the latter, why do you asso- 
ciate the corn with Mr. McGlucken's lameness? Don't you 
see for yourself that most persons would get the notion 

that McGlucken's lameness was caused bv a corn which 

%/ 

grew up through his boot and was fastened to his hat? 
Why, Mr. Peters, if we were to print a thing like that I 
believe this office would be gutted by a mob before 
night." 

"I see; I must rewrite that." 

" Bight afterward, next to that singular reference to the 
fact that his aunt persisted in putting on her gum shoes 
whenever she went to bed, and that his grandmother swal- 
lowed her spectacles three times in church, you remark 



THE LATE MR. M GLUCKEN. 23 

that * in 1874 Mr. McGlucken was taken with torpidity of 
the liver, whereupon he joined the Swedenborgian church 
and voted the Greenback ticket regularly.' You see you 
fail to make the thing connect. People will want to 
know how torpidity of the liver drove him over to the Swe- 
denborgians, and why a Swedenborgian with an ineffective 
liver should have a propensity to support the Greenback- 
ers. And no sooner does the bewildered reader give up 
the problem than you add, respecting Mr. McGlucken's 
connection with the church choir, that 'he was a fine 
singer generally, but on this particular Sunday he rode 
his favorite horse to church, and, as he had the heaves, he 
had to stop before reaching his destination, so he missed 
his usual participation in the services,' &c, &c. I pledge 
you my word of honor, Mr. Peters, as a man who has his 
finger on the public pulse, that there will be a million 
peojDle around here to-morrow perfectly savage to know 
whether McGlucken had the heaves, or whether the horse 
had! No, Mr. Peters, it won't do! It really won't. I want 
to put in a good obituary of McGlucken. I know you want 
to do him justice. I can see your sympathetic feeling run- 
ning all through this article. It is chock-full of genuine 
emotion. You really mourn for McGlucken. But hang it, 
young man, if I should let the billowy tumults of sorrow 
that rage in your soul boil out into the columns of the 
Daily Argus in this particular form, I should have the 
whole McGlucken family after me with a libel suit, and 
within forty-eight hours all the insane asylums in the 
State would be so crowded that the patients couldn't 
breathe! No, you must overhaul it; furbish it up; rewrite 
it; remodel it; lick it into shape. I'll give you one more 
chance." 

Mr. Peters handed in his resignation, and sought a posi- 
tion as conductor of a horse-car. Max Adeler. 



24 A SONG OF THE CANTEEN. 

A SONG OF THE CANTEEN. 

There are bonds of all sorts in this world of ours, 
Fetters of friendship and ties of flowers, 

And true lovers' knots, I ween; 
The girl and the boy are bound by a kiss, 
But there's never a bond, old friend, like this — . 

We have drank from the same canteen. 

It was sometimes water and sometimes milk, 
And sometimes applejack, fine as silk, 

But whate'er the tipple has been, 
We shared it together in bane or bliss, 
And I warm to you, friend, when I think of this — 

We have drank from the same canteen. 

The rich and the great sit down to dine, 
And they quaff each other in sparkling wine, 

From glasses of crystal and green; 
But I guess in their golden potations they miss 
The warmth of regard to be found in this — 

We have drank from the same canteen. 

We shared our blankets and tents together, 
And have fought and marched in all kinds of 
weather, 

And hungry and full have we been; 
Had days of battle and days of rest, 
But this memory I cling to and love the best — 

We have drank from the same canteen. 

For when wounded I lay on the outer slope, 
With my blood flowing fast, and but little hope 

Upon which my faint spirit could lean, 
Oh, then, I remember, you crawled to my side, 
And bleeding so fast it seemed both must have 
died, 
We drank from the same canteen. 

Charles G. Halpine. 



MKS. GKUBBS' KAILROAD CLAIM, 25 

MRS. GRUBBS' RAILROAD CLAIM. 

Mrs. Grubbs (excitedly)— Do you mean to say you 
don't intend to make a claim on the railroad company for 
my damaged trunk? You know it was a beautiful new 
trunk, and it's absolutely ruined, and the contents are 
hardly recognizable. 

Mr. Grubbs (wise in his generation) — It is very unfortu- 
nate, my dear; but never mind, 111 get you a new trunk, 
and— — 

Mrs. Grubbs — Indeed you won't. If you are not man 
enough to demand your rights, I'll do it myself, so 
there ! 

Mrs. Grubbs (in railroad office building an hour later) — 
I wish to see the person in charge of the damaged baggage 
department. 

Door-tender — Never heard of any sich department, 
mum. 

Mrs. Grubbs — Well, I took passage over this road a few 
days ago, and when my trunk was delivered it was almost 
demolished and half the contents 

Door-tender — Yes, mum — very busy now, mum; can't 
stop to chat about family affairs, mum. 

Mrs. Grubbs — Huh! Where is the president's office? 

Door-tender — Right there, mum. 

Mrs. Grubbs (after half an hour's vain knocking at the 
door) — I can't make any one hear. 

Door- tender —No, mum; the president is on a trip to 
Chiny fer his health, but that's his office, mum. 

Mrs. Grubbs — Will you be kind enough to tell me who 
comes next to the president? 

Door-tender — First vice-president, mum. 

Mrs. Grubbs — Where is his office? 

Door-tender — With the president, mum. 

Mrs.- Grubbs — But that office is closed. 



26 MBS. GKUBBS' BALLBOAD CLAIM. 

Door-tender— Yes, mum; he's in Chicago, but he'll be 
back next week. 

Mrs. Grubbs — I'd like to know who's in charge here. 

Door- tender — I am, mum. 

Mrs. Grubbs (impatiently) — Who is in charge of the 
building? 

Door-tender — Mr. Feelbig, mum. 

Mrs. Grubbs — Where is he? 

Door- tender — Down stairs, bossin' the coons what's sif- 
tin' ashes, mum. 

Mrs. Grubbs— Humph! What is his position? 

Door-tender — Head janitor, mum. 

Mrs. Grubbs (with an inspiration) — Is the superintend- 
ent in? 

Door-tender— Don't know, mum, as we've got any super- 
intendent, mum. You see, Mr. Feelbig used to be called 
the superintendent of the building, but 

Mrs. Grubbs (with a great effort at self-control) — I mean 
the superintendent of the railroad. 

Door-tender — Oh! Why didn't ye say so? I don't know 
whether he be in or not, fer he's mostly on the road, but 
his office is on the fifth floor, mum. 

Mrs. Grubbs (to elevator boy) — I wish to go to the fifth 
floor. 

Elevator Boy — Nothin' there, ma'am, but offices. 

Mrs. Grubbs — I know it. 

Elevator Boy— Oh! Who de ye want ter see? 

Mrs. Grubbs — The superintendent. 

Elevator Boy (picking up a dime novel, and settling 
himself in one corner) — He ain't in. 

Mrs. Grubbs — Then I want to see the next one in 
charge. 

Elevator Boy— Who? 

Mrs. Grubbs — I don't know; whoever is in charge at 
this time. 

Elevator Boy — I don't know who is in charge, either, 



MRS. GRUBBS' RAILROAD CLAIM. 27 

but I'll take ye up, only ye mustn't stay too long chinning 
to the clerks. It ain't allowed. Here ye are. Fifth floor, 
mum. 

Mrs. Grubbs (entering nearest door and addressing the 
first person in view) — I w T ish to see about a trunk 

First Clerk— Baggage-room — other side river, madam. 

Mrs. Grubbs —About a trunk which was badly dam- 
aged 

First Clerk— Nex' desk. 

Mrs. Grubbs (with a sigh of infinite relief) I called in 
regard to a damaged trunk — — 

Second Clerk— Nex' desk. 

Mrs. Grubbs— My trunk was badly damaged— in fact, 
ruined 

Third (and last) Clerk — Nex' room. 

Mrs. Grubbs (in next room) — The baggage handlers of 
your read 

Official (starting up) — My gracious! On strike? 

Mrs. Grubbs (with spirit) — They struck my trunk 
against a stone wall or something, and nearly demolished 
it. 

Official (resuming his seat) — Nex' floor. 
Mrs. Grubbs— Which floor? 
Official — Nexisaid. 

Mrs. Grubbs — Up or down? 
Official— Um — down. 

Mrs. Grubbs ( to the elevator boy ) — Fourth floor, 
please. 

Elevator Boy — Sell anything? 

Mrs. Grubbs — I am not a peddler. I wish to go to the 
fourth floor. 

Elevator Boy (with a startled air) — Ye ain't a relation of 
any of the vice-presidents, are ye? 

Mrs. Grubbs (shortly)— No. 



28 MRS. GRUBBS* RAILROAD CLAIM. 

Elevator Boy (with restored equilibrium) — I thought ye 
couldn't be, from y'r clothes. This floor is full o' vice- 
presidents. Fourth, madam. 

Mrs. Grubbs (catching sight of a benevolent-looking 
personage just leaving an office) — I beg your pardon, sir, 
but I want some one to — to — I want to see some one 
about a damaged trunk, very badly damaged — in fact, 
ruined. 

Benevolent Party (reflectively) — It might be well to see 
the ninth assistant vice-president's seventeenth assistant 
secretary, room 93, tenth floor. 

Mrs. Grubbs — Oh, thank you! I began to think I never 
would find the right office. 

Benevolent Party — Take the elevator to the right, 
madam. I am very glad to be of service. Good-day, 
madam. 

Mrs. Grubbs— Tenth floor, please. 

Elevator Boy — Yes'm. You must be sellin' something, 
ain't you? I won't tell, 'deed and double, but I think ye 
might give me a little if it's good to eat. 

Mrs. Grubbs — This is simply a roll of music, and a few 
other things I got as I came along, thinking I'd be through 
here in a few minutes. 

Elevator Boy — Oh, I forgot to tell ye. The elevator 
don't run above the seventh floor to-day — making some 
repairs up there. 

Mrs. Grubbs — Dear me! How do the clerks get up? 

Elevator Boy — I let 'em off here an' they go up the fire- 
escape. Want to see any one in partic'lar? 

Mrs. Grubbs — Yes, the — the — well, it's one of the as- 
sistant secretaries. 

Elevator Boy — Here comes one now. 

Mrs. Grubbs (stepping into the hall) — I wish to see the 
— the tenth assistant president's ninth assistant 

Assistant Secretary — No such person exists, madam. 

Mrs. Grubbs — Hasn't he a ninth assistant sec 



ICBS. GRUBBS* RAILROAD CLAIM. 29 

Assistant Secretary (impressively) — There is no tenth as- 
sistant president, madam. 

Mrs. Grubbs — Let me see. Oh! It was a vice-presi- 
dent. 

Assistant Secretary (impatiently) — Well? 

Mrs. Grnbbs — Well, I want to see the niuth assistant 
pres — I mean vice-president's 

Assistant Secretary — He is net in. 

Mrs. Grnbbs — Xot the vice-president himself, but 



Assistant Secretary — I understand. The ninth assistant 
vice-president. He is not in. 

Mrs. Grubbs — I don't want to see him. I want to see 
his ninth — oh, now I remember — I want to see the niuth 
assistant vice-president's seventeenth assistant secretary. 

Assistant Secretary — I am he, madam. What can I do 
for you? 

Mrs. Grubbs — It's about a damaged trunk — 

Assistant Secretary — Great snakes! Trunks are not in 
my department. Pardon me, but I'm in a great hurry. 

Mrs. Grubbs — Wait just one moment. A gentleman 
whom I met coming from an office down stairs referred me 
to you. I'm sure he is the president, or something. 

Assistant Secretary — President's away, ditto superin- 
tendent. What kind of a looking gentleman was he? 

Mrs. Grubbs— Oh, real benevolent looking, and he took 
so much interest in my case, and 

Assistant Secretary — Guess he doesn't belong here. Big 
or little man? 

Mrs, Grubbs — A tall, handsome, portly old gentleman, 
with white side-whiskers, and I remember he wore a re- 
markable antique ring, Egyptian design. 

Assistant Secretary — Oh! Xow I know who you mean. 
He's a distant relative of the ninth assistant vice; and now 
I think of it, a friend of his once lost a lot of cattle in a 
blizzard while in transit, and to oblige him the ninth as- 
sistant vice got me to fix the matter up somehow and send 



30 MRS. GRUBBS' RAILROAD CLAIM. 

him a check for part of the losses; but that was freight, 
you know, through freight; it wasn't baggage. I have noth- 
ing to do with baggage — hope I never will have either. 

Mrs. Grabbs — But where shall I go? 

Assistant Secretary — Oh, nearly all the hotels in this 
city are good — mere matter of 

Mrs. Grubbs — I mean to whom shall I apply about 
my trunk? 

Assistant Secretary — I'm sure I don't know; you ought 
to have thought of that before you came here. I must 
hurry, madam. 

Mrs. Grubbs — (groping wearily along the halls)— I wish 
to see 



First Passer — Next floor. 

Mrs. Grubbs— Is the official who has charge of the bag- 
gage which 

Second Passer — Over t' depot. Don't b'long here. 

Mrs. Grubbs (desperately, to another) — When this rail- 
road company sells tickets 

Third Passer — Yes, indeed, madam; but we don't sell 
tickets in this building. Ticket office down street. Here, 
boy! Hold that elevator a moment. Lady wants t' go 
down. Good-day, madam. Most luxurious traveling in 
the country, as you'll soon find. 

Mrs. Grubb (to elevator boy while dropping down) — 
Isn't there any head to this establishment? 

Elevator Boy — Ain't much else but head, I guess. You 
ain't been on the second floor yet. Want to get off? I 
won't tell. 

Mrs. Grubbs (humbly)— Ye-e-s. 

Elevator Boy— Tackle them fellers there. They bought 
five books of a lady yestiday, but she were younger 'n 
you. 

Mrs. Grubbs (entering first office, and determined that 
her errand sha'n't be misunderstood) — My trunk was com- 



MRS. GRUBBS' RAILROAD CLAIM, 31 

pletely ruined on this road, and I want to see the proper 
official about it. 

Firsfc Clerk — Nex' room. 

Mrs. Grubbs (entering next room) —I am determined 
to find the official who has charge of the— the baggage 
dep 

First Clerk — Bag'm'ster over depot. Here, boy! Show 
lady cross-town cars. 

Mrs. Grubbs (at depot an hour later) — My trunk was 
utterly ruined on this road, and 

Depot Master — Lost? 

Mrs. Grubbs — No, smashed; smashed all to pieces. 

Depot Master — Old trunk, I spose? 

Mrs. Grubbs (with some asperity) — A brand-new one. 

Depot Master — Well, people as buys these 'ere cheap 
paper trunks jest 'cause 

Mrs. Grubbs (vehemently) — My trunk was thick leather, 
bound with iron. 

Depot Master — Ye might a known better 'n to buy a 
heavy thing like that, as would break of its own weight. 
Now here is a trunk what ain't hard to lift, and 

Mrs. Grubbs — My trunk was damaged and I want pay 
for it. 

Depot Master — Over t' genl office. 

Mrs. Grubbs (out of all patience) — But I just came from 
the general office 

Depot Master — Well, ye needn't scowl at me 'bout it. 
I didn't bring ye. If a man 'ud put on half the airs wot 
you do I'd knock 'im down. We ain't got no money here 
ter start benevolent societies fer people with lost trunks. 
The general office is where the money is, can't ye see that? 
Take the cross-town cars. 

Mrs. Grubbs (an hour later, at general office) — Are you 
connected with this company, sir? 

Pompous Individual— Only in an advisory capacity. I 
am one of its attorneys. 



32 IMPORTANCE OF THE UNION. 

Mrs. Grubbs— Ob. Well I bave a claim for damages for 



a- 



Pompous Individual — I'll see your lawyer at any time, 
madam, but, remember, if you want to sue, we've got tbe 
best lawyers in the State, and we own two-thirds of the 
legislature and half the judges. Better drop it. Good-day, 
madam. 

Mrs. Grubbs (after two hours further and equally fruit- 
less questioning) — Can you direct me 

Policeman — Yis, mum, Oi can direct ye to the door, an' 
that's phat I come for. It's complained t' me that ye've 
been hangin' an' loafin' about the buildin' all day wid no 
apparent means o' respectable support, an' it's out ye'll 
be goin' av y'r own accord or Oi'll put yez out. Move on, 
now. 

Mrs. Grubbs (entering her own home, just before dark) 
— Mercy! I feel as if I should faint. How long have you 
been home, my dear? 

Mr. Grubbs — Only about an hour. Well, did you settle 
about the trunk? 

Mrs. Grubbs — Yes. Just before reaching the house I 
happened to see a drayman who once did some work for 
us. I immediately hired him to come get the trunk and 
dump it into the East Kiver. Charles W. Foster. 



IMPOKTANCE OF THE UNION. 

I profess, sir, in my career hitherto to have kept steadily 
in view the prosperity and honor of the whole country, 
and the preservation of our federal Union. It is to that 
Union we owe our safety at home, and our consideration 
and dignity abroad. It is to that Union we are chiefly in- 
debted for whatever makes us most proud of our country. 
That Union we reached only by the discipline of our vir- 
tues, in the severe school of adversity. It had its origin 



IMPORTANCE OF THE UNION. 33 

in the necessities of disordered finance, prostrate com- 
merce, and rained credit. 

Under its benign influences, these great interests im- 
mediately awoke, as from the dead, and sprang forth with 
newness of life. Every year of its duration has teemed 
with fresh proofs of its ntility and its blessings; and, al- 
though our territory has stretched out wider and wider, 
and our population spread farther and farther, they have 
not outrun its protection or its benefits. It has been to 
us all a copious fountain of national, social, and personal 
happiness. 

I have not allowed myself, sir, to look beyond the Union, 
to see what might lie hidden iu the dark recess behind. I 
have not coolly weighed the chances of preserving liberty, 
when the bonds that unite us together shall be broken 
asunder. I have not accustomed myself to hang over the 
precipice of disunion to see whether, with my short sight, 
I can fathom the depth of the abyss below; nor could I 
regard him as a safe counselor in the affairs of this govern- 
ment, whose thoughts should be mainly bent on consider- 
ing, uot how the Union should be best preserved, but how 
tolerable might be the coudition of the people, when it 
shall be broken up and destroyed. 

While the Union lasts, we have high, exciting, gratifying 
prospects spread out before us, for us and our children. 
Beyond that I seek not to penetrate the vail. God grant 
that, in my day, at least, that curtain may not rise. God 
grant that on my vision never may be opened what lies 
behind. When my eyes shall be turned to behold, for the 
last time, the sun in heaven, may I not see him shining 
on the broken and dishonored fragments of a once glori- 
ous Union; on States dissevered, discordant, belligerent, 
on a land rent with civil feuds, or drenched, it may be, in 
fraternal blood! 

Let their last feeble and lingering glance rather behold 
the gorgeous ensign of the republic, now known and lion- 



34 THE AMERICAN FLAG. 

ored throughout the earth, still full high advanced, its 
arms and trophies streaming in their original luster, not 
a stripe erased or polluted, nor a single star obscured — 
bearing for its motto no such miserable interrogatory as — 
what is all this worth? Nor those other words of delusion 
and folly — Liberty first, and Union afterward — but every- 
where, spread all over in characters of living light, blazing 
on all its ample folds as they float under the sea and over 
the land, and in every wind over the whole heavens, that 
other sentiment dear to every true American heart — Lib- 
erty and Union, now and forever, one and inseparable! 

Daniel Webster. 



THE AMEKICAN FLAG. 

When Freedom, from her mountain height, 
Unfurled her standard to the air, 

She tore the azure robe of night, 
And set the stars of glory there. 

She mingled with its gorgeous dyes 

The milky baldric of the skies, 

And striped its pure, celestial white, 

With streakings of the morning light; 

Then, from his mansion in the sun, 

She called her eagle bearer down, 

And gave into his mighty hand 

The symbol of her chosen land. 

Majestic monarch of the cloud, 

Who rear'st aloft thy regal form, 
To hear the tempest trumpings loud 
And see the lightning lances driven, 

When strive the warriors of the storm, 
And rolls the thunder-drum of heaven, 
Child of the sun! to thee 'tis given 



THE AMERICAN FLAG. 35 

To guard the banner of the free, 
To hover in the sulphur smoke, 
To ward away the battle -stroke, 
And bid its blendings shine afar, 
Like rainbows on the cloud of war, 

The harbingers of victory I 

Flag of the brave! thy folds shall fly, 

The sign of hope and triumph high, 
"When speaks the signal 'trumpet tone, 

And the long line comes gleaming* on. 
Ere yet the life-blood, warm and wet, 

Has dimmed the glistening bayonet, 
Each soldier eye shall brightly turn 

To where thy sky-born glories burn; 
And, as his springing steps advance, 
Catch war and vengeance from the glance. 
And when the cannon-mouthings loud 

Heave in wild wreaths the battle-shroud, 
And gory sabers rise and fall 
Like shoots of flame on midnight's pall; 

Then shall thy meteor glances glow, 
And cowering foes shall sink beneath 

Each gallant arm, that strikes below 
That lovely messenger of death. 

Flag of the seas! on ocean wave 

Thy stars shall glitter o'er the brave; 
When death, careering on the gale, 

Sweeps darkly round the bellied sail, 
And frightened waves rush wildly back 

Before the broadside's reeling rack, 
Each dying wanderer of the. sea 

Shall look at once to heaven and thee, 
And smile to see thy splendors fly 
In triumph o'er his closing eye. 



36 THE LITTLE SISTEB OF CHARITY. 

Flag of the free heart's hope and home! 

By angel hands to valor given; 
Thy stars have lit the welkin dome, 

And all thy hues were born in heaven. 
Forever float that standard sheet! 

Where breathes the foe but falls before us, 
With Freedom's soil beneath our feet, 

And Freedom's banner streaming o'er us? 

Joseph Eodman Drake. 



THE LITTLE SISTER OF CHARITY. 

Young Harry Gilflory was just twenty-four, 

And had to his credit a million or more; 

To him the great world was a garden of flowers, 

And he, like a butterfly, wasted his hours. 

He frequented clubs, and he drove his fast horse — 

Was the pet of the belles, and their mammas, of course; 

He had nothing to do but kill time, and I fear 

This cost him at least twenty thousand a year. 

Like many possessors of very great wealth, 

He thought more of pleasures that kill than of health; 

The wine-cup he'd quaff till his wits went astray, 

And sometimes he'd cling to it day after day, 

Till nature gave out, and he'd wake at the close 

Of a lengthened debauch, sick, unnerved, and morose — 

A prey to remorse, and disgusted to think 

Of the follies he'd wrought while demented by drink. 

'Twas after a turn of this kind that young Gil — 
Dejected, unnerved by excess, and quite ill — 
Lounged in his hotel, to all outward things blind, 
At war with himself and with all of his kind; 
His young features wore an expression forlorn, 



THE LITTLE SISTER OF CHARITY. 37 

His clothes were bedaubed, and in some places torn, 
His hair was unkempt, and his eyes were blood-shot, 
And he looked very much like a penniless sot. 

Though society's pet, and by every one known, 

Not one spoke to Gil as he sat there alone; 

He was left unmolested amid the rude din, 

Till a small beggar-girl from the street ventured in; 

Her clothing was thin, and her features were pinched, 

But from the rude gazers the child never flinched; 

She must have been less than a dozen years old, 

But a long fight with hardship had rendered her bold. 

To each lounger the little petitioner went — 
" Please give me a copper, sir — only a cent! 
Since morning I've had not a morsel to eat, 
And I'm tired, so tired, from walking the street!" 
Some gave her a penny, some pushed her aside; 
But, firm and undaunted, she every one tried, 
Till she came to our hero, the wretched Gilrlory, 
Held out her w ee hand, and repeated her story. 

" You've had nothing to eat since the morning, you say?' 1 

Gil sullenly growled. " Little girl go away! 

For three days I've tasted no food; so you see, 

You're far better off, you young beggar, than me!" 

The girl hung her head and had nothing to say, 

But she heaved a deep sigh, and walked slowly away; 

She paused at the door, hesitated, and then 

Turned quickly, and faced young Gilflory again. 

"Poor man!" she exclaimed; I'm so sorry for you!" 
And her pitying eyes filled with heavenly dew, 
And hee voice had a pathos as tender and sweet 
As our Saviour's when Magdalen knelt at his feet. 
'-Three days without eating! Oh, that is too bad! 
Here, take these five cents, and you'll make me so glad. 



38 THE LITTLE SISTER OF CHARITY. 

You know you can't live without something to eat, 
And I can get help from some one on the street." 

From his indolent stupor Gilflory awoke, 

At first he felt sure that the child meant to joke; 

He looked at her keenly, but naught could he trace 

Save angelic sympathy in her young face. 

" By Heaven! she means it! ' he cried, in surprise; 

"Her young bosom heaves; there are tears in her eyes; 

Both language and accent speak pity and love — 

She offers me money, and means it, by Jove! 

"This poor little waif is a princess to-night, 
And I am the subject that pales in her light. 
She has taught me a lesson that cannot depart, 
While reason remains and there's warmth in my heart; 
She has taught me the lesson that Christ taught of old — 
That the heart which can feel is the genuine gold, 
And that in His bright home most blessed He'll call 
Not those who gave largely, but those who gave all. 

"Come here, thou frail waif of small form but big heart, 
Gilflory 's the beggar — the lady thou art!" 
And quietly taking his hat from his head, 
He passed it around to eacli person, and said: 
"I want five dollars, please, not a single cent less, 
For this angel of light in a calico dress!" 

They gave without grumbling; but then, don't you see, 
They gave to a young millionaire on a spree, 
Who passed it in turn to the * 'angel of light 
In the calico dress," and kept sober that night. 

Francis S. Smith. 



THE WAR IN AMERICA. 39 

THE WAR IN AMERICA. 

My lords: I cannot concur in a blind and servile ad- 
dress, which approves, and endeavors to sanctify the mon- 
strous measures which have heaped disgrace and misfor- 
tune upon us. This, my lords, is a perilous and tre- 
mendous moment! It is not a time for adulation, The 
smoothness of flattery can not now avail — cannot save us 
in this rugged and awful crisis. It is now necessary to in- 
struct the throne in the language of truth. We must dis- 
pel the illusion and the darkness which envelop it, and 
display, in its full danger and true colors, the ruin that is 
brought to our doors. 

Can the minister of the day now presume to expect a 
continuance of support in this ruinous infatuation? Can 
parliament be so dead to its dignity and its duty as to be 
thus deluded into the loss of the one and the violation of 
the other? To give an unlimited credit and support for 
the steady perseverance in measures not proposed for our 
parliamentary advice, but dictated and forced upon us — 
in measures, I say, my lords, which have reduced this late 
flourishing empire to ruin and contempt! " But yesterday, 
and England might have stood against the world; now 
none so poor to do her reverence." I use the words of a 
poet; but, though it be poetry, it is no fiction. 

My lords, this ruinous and ignominious situation, 
where we cannot act with success, nor suffer with honor, 
calls upon us to remonstrate in the strongest and loudest 
language of truth, to rescue the ear of majesty from the 
delusions which surround it. The desperate state of our 
arms abroad is in part know T n. No man thinks more highly 
of them than I do. I love and honor the English troops. 
I know their virtues and their valor. I know they can 
achieve anything except impossibilities; and I know that 
the conquest of English America is an impossibility. You 
cannot, I venture to say it, you cannot conquer America! 



40 THE WAR IN AMERICA. 

You may swell every expense and every effort still more 
extravagantly; pile and accumulate every assistance you can 
buy or borrow; traffic and barter with every little, pitiful 
German prince that sells and sends his subjects to the 
shambles of a foreign prince; your efforts are forever vain 
and impotent — doubly so from this mercenary aid on which 
you rely; for it irritates, to an incurable resentment, the 
minds of your enemies, to over run them with the merce- 
nary sons of rapine and plunder, devoting them and their 
possessions to the rapacity of hireling cruelty! If I were 
an American, as I am an Englishman, while a foreign 
troop was landed in my country, I never would lay down 
my arms — never — never — never! 

But, my lords, who is the man that, in addition to these 
disgraces and mischiefs of our army, has dared to author- 
ize and associate to our arms the tomahawk and scalpiug- 
knife of the savage? to call into civilized alliance the wild 
and inhuman savage of the woods; to delegate to the 
merciless Indian the defense of disputed rights, and to 
wage the horrors of his barbarous war against our breth- 
ren? My lords, these enormities cry aloud for redress 
and punishment. Unless thoroughly donp away, it will 
be a stain on the national character. It is a violation of 
the Constitution. 

Infected with the mercenary spirit of robbery and 
rapine; familiarized to the horrid scenes of savage cruelty, 
it can no longer boast of the noble and generous princi- 
ples which dignify a soldier; no longer sympathize with 
the dignity of the royal banner; nor feel the pride, pomp, 
and circumstance of glorious war, ''that make ambition 
virtue!" What makes ambition virtue? The sense of 
honor! 

But is the sense of honor consistent with a spirit of 
plunder, or the practice of murder? Can it flow from 
mercenary motives, or can it prompt to cruel deeds? 
Besides these murderers and plunderers, let me ask our 



THE WAB IN AAIEBICA. 41 

ministers— what otner allies have they acquired? What 
otlier powers have they associated to their cause? Have 
they entered into alliance with the king of the gipsies? 
Nothing, my lords, is too low or two ludicrous to be con- 
sistent with their counsels. 

I am astonished, shocked, to hear such principles con- 
fessed — to hear them avowed in this House, or in this 
country; principles equally unconstitutional, inhuman, and 
unchristian! My lords, we are called upon, as mem- 
bers of this House, as men, as Christian men, to protest 
against such notions standing near the throne, polluting 
the ear of majesty. 

" That God and nature put into our hands?" I know not 
what ideas that lord may entertain of God and nature, 
but I know that such abominable principles are equally 
abhorrent; to religion and humanity. What! to attribute 
the sacred sanction of God and nature to the massacres of 
the Indian scalping-knife — to the cannibal savage tortur- 
ing, murdering, roasting, and eating — literally, my lords, 
eating the mangled victims of his barbarous battles! Such 
horrible notions shock every precept of religion, divine or 
natural, and every generous feeling of humanity. 

These abominable principles, and this more abominable 
avowal of them, demand the most decisive indignation. I 
call upon that right reverend bench, those holy ministers 
of the gospel, and pious pastors of our church — I conjure 
them to join in the holy work, and vindicate the religion 
of their God. I appeal to the wisdom and the law of that 
learned bench, to defend and support the justice of their 
country. 

I call upon the bishops, to interpose the unsullied sanc- 
tity of their lawn; upon the learned judges, to interpose 
the purity of their ermine, to save tts from this pollu- 
tion. I call upon the honor of your lordships, to rev- 
erence the dignity of your ancestors, and to maintain your 
own. I call upon the spirit and humanity of my country, 



42 WHAT THE SKIPPEK SAID. 

to vindicate the national character. I invoke the genius 
of the Constitution. From the tapestry that adorns these 
walls, the immortal ancestor of this noble lord frowns 
with indignation at the disgrace of his country. 

Earl of Chatham. 



WHAT THE SKIPPER SAID. 

We were all sailing down along the Jersey coast in a 
yacht, and the greenhorns in the party were bothering the 
skipper with questions. We sighted a light-house, and 
Mr. Anderson, who hailed from Ohio, and had never seen 
one before, asked what that was. 

" That," said the skipper, rather scornfully, "is a light — 
a flash-light." 

" What makes it flash?" inquired Mr. Anderson. 

"Don't you know what makes it flash?" asked the 
skipper. 

"No; what?" 

"Well, you know what a lightning-bug is, don't you? 
The government has a place for breeding them, over here 
at Egg Harbor. They've crossed them and crossed them, 
using the selected varieties every time, until now they 
turn out a lightning-bug as big as a goose, and bigger. 
I've seen 'em weigh from eighty to ninety pounds, and 
carrying an illuminated end that would make a locomotive 
head-light look like darkness— actually look as black as 
ink." 

"How do they raise them?" 

"Feed 'em on musquitoes. A healthy bug'll eat half a 
bushel of New Jersey musquitoes at a meal. Government 
employs boys to catch the musquitoes in traps in the 
swamps. They keep the lightning-bugs in iron cages on 
account of the heat. You put fifteen or twenty of 'em to- 
gether and get 'em excited, and they'll make it so hot in 



WHAT THE SKIPPER SAID. 43 

the cage in the coldest day in winter, that the keepers 
have to put ice around the cages to prevent them from 
melting." 

"How about the light-houses?" 

" When the government wants to start a light-house, 
they make a requisition for a bug, and he is carried off in 
a cage with a boy to stand behind and fan his fire-works 
so's to keep 'em cool. Then they put him on top of alight- 
house, and set him at work. If he doesn't flash his light 
often enough, the man tickles him under the wing with a 
hoe-handle, or something, and when he persists in working 
in the day-time, the keeper has to mesmerize him to pre- 
vent him from undermining his constitution." 

"Wonderful!" said Mr. Anderson. 

"I had no idea of such a thing," said Mr. O'Brien. 

The skipper seemed encouraged to go on, and try to do 
so a little better. 

" Yes," he said, "the whole thing is very curious. Now 
you wouldn't believe how long that light-house over there 
is?" 

"How long is it?" 

"Well, about eight or nine hundred yards. Possibly 
longer." 

"No?" 

" Yes. You see they began to build it in 1809. But the 
foundation was soft over on the beach there, and so the 
structure gradually sunk away. In about two years the 
lantern was only six feet above the ground. They had to 
build right on top of it, and as that made it heavier, of 
course it sauk farther. One night the keeper accidentally 
overslept himself, and when he woke up the lantern was 
beneath the surface of the sand. lb took nearly a whole 
day to dig him out. And so, you know, the government 
went on adding to the light-house year after year, and the 
building kept on sinking, until now you can go down 
stairs in that light-house well on to a mile toward the cen- 



44 WHAT THE SKIPPER SAID. 

ter of the earth. The inspector told me they would con- 
tinue to buiid, just to see where it would go to. The 
board, I understand, rather expects ultimately to strike 
China, and to bring about an arrangement for having the 
whole of our tea trade with that country done up and down 
the stairs of that light-house. Be rough on the Pacific 
railroads, won't it?" 

" Most extraordinary thing I ever heard of!" exclaimed 
Mr. Anderson. 

"I can hardly believe it," said Mr. O'Brien. 

" I don t ask you to believe it," said the skipper. J Tm 
only giving you the facts, and you can do what you please 
with them. Now, there's the Barnegat light; that was not 
built for a light-house. It was put there by a convulsion 
of nature." 

"How?" 

"Why, there was a man lived on that spot named Wil- 
liam McGuigan, and he wanted to sink a well. He had to 
go two hundred and thirty seven feet before he struck 
water; then he bricked the well in, and was satisfied. One 
night, thirteen months later, there was an earthquake 
along the coast here, and many supposed it was caused by 
volcanic action, for in the morning, when McGuigan went 
out to get a pitcher of water for breakfast, he found that 
his well had been shot up out of the ground, and was 
standing at that very minute two hundred and twenty-six 
feet above the surface of his back yard. Subsequently he 
went to Indiana to live with his wife's mother, and he sold 
the well out to the Light-house Board, who put a stair- 
case and a couple of boys in it, and to-day it's the finest 
light on the Jersey coast." 

"It is queer," said Mr. Anderson, "that no notice of so 
remarkable an occurrence should have appeared in the 
papers." 

"The papers!" exclaimed the skipper, contemptuously. 
"It's mighty little they know about what goes on down 



WHAT THE SKIPPER SAID. 45 

here! Dill you ever see in any of them any account of the 
death of Thomas Shanahan, the keeper of the Absecora 
light, a few years ago? Well, sir, one night, while Shana- 
han was in the lantern, four flights of stairs fell away from 
the top, and Shanahan was very much worried how to get 
down. When morning came he got desperate. He took 
the lightning-bug out of the lantern, straddled himself on 
its back, ami stueK his penknife into it to make it fly." 

" Did he get down safely ?*' 

"He got down, but one leg accidentally rested against 
the hot end of the bug, and when he reached the ground 
his leg was burned to a crisp, and he died in two hours. 
The bug flew over into the pines in Atlantic County, and 
set fire to eight hundred thousand dollars' worth of 
timber. " 

" Awful!" ejaculated Mr. Anderson. 

"Those keepers have a hard time, any way," said the 
skipper, as he jammed his helm hard-aport. "I know 
one of 'em, over here at Long Branch, that is ruined for 
life -absolutely ruined." 

"How?" 

"Why, he's been going up and down those light-house 
stairs for twenty-two years, four times a day, and sticking 
close to work, taking no other exercise. What's the con- 
sequence? Consequence is that he can't walk straight to 
save his life! Forgotten how. He'll make fifteen or 
twenty circles in going across the street, and on Sundays 
he has to start one hour ahead of his wife, because he has 
so much farther to go; and even then, very often, church 
is half over and the collection taken up before he gets into 
his pew. I've known that man to walk eleven miles in 
going a distance of three-quarters of a mile, and the queer 
thing about it is that when he stands perfectly fc till it 
makes his head swim. Even his bedstead is swung on a 
pivot and revolved by clock-work. Says he must have it 
or he can't sleep a wink." 



46 THANATOPSIS. 

Mr. Anderson and Mr. O'Brien said nothing in reply, 
but they looked very thoughtful, and even sad, as the 
skipper dropped the sail and came alongside the pier. He 
carried the joke a little too far. Max Adjeleb. 



THANATOPSIS. 



To him who in the love of Nature holds 
Communion with her visible forms, she speaks 
A various language; for his gayer hours 
She has a voice of gladness, and a smile 
And eloquence of beauty; and she glides 
Into his darker musings, with a mild 
And healing sympathy, that steals away 
Their sharpness, ere he is aware. 

When thoughts 
Of the last bitter hour come like a blight 
Over thy spirit, and sad images 
Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall, 
And breathless daikness, and the narrow house, 
Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart;— 
Go forth, under the open sky, and list 
To Nature's teachings, while from all around — 
Earth and her waters, and the depths of air — 
Comes a still voice: 

Yet a few days, and thee 
The all-beholding sun shall see no more 
In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground, 
Where thy pale form is laid with many tears, 
Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist 
Thy image. Earth that nourished thee, shall claim 
Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again, 
And, lost each human trace, surrendering up 



THANATOPSIS. 47 

Thine individual being, shalt thou go 

To mix forever with the elements — 

To be a brother to the insensible rock, 

And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain 

Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak 

Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mold. 

Yet not to thine eternal resting-place 
Shalt thou retire alone — nor couldst thou wish 
.Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down 
With patriarchs of the infant world — with kings, 
The powerful of the earth — the wise, the good, 
Fair forms, and hoary seers, of ages past, 
All in one mighty sepulcher. The hills 
Rock-ribbed, and ancient as the sun — the vales 
Stretching in pensive quietness between; 
The venerable woods — rivers that move 
In majesty, and the complaining brooks 
That make the meadows green; and, poured round all, 
Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste — 
Are but the solemn decorations all 
Of the great tomb of man. 

The golden sun, 
The planets, all the infinite host of heaven, 
Are shining on the sad abodes of death, 
Through the still ]a]3se of ages. All that tread 
The globe are but a handful to the tribes 
That slumber in its bosom. Take the wings 
Of morning, and the Barcan desert pierce. 
Or lose thyself in the continuous woods 
Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound 
Save his own dashings — yet the dead are there; 
And millions in those solitudes, since first 
The flight of years began, have laid them down 
In their last sleep — the dead there reign alone. 



48 THANATOPSIS. 

So sbalt tliou rest — and what if thou withdraw 
Unheeded by the living — and no friend 
Take note of thy depart are? All that breathe 
Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh 
When thou art gone, the solemn brood ox care 
Plod on, and each one, as before, will chase 
His favorite phantom; yet all these shall leave 
Their mirth and their employments, and shall come 
And make their bed with thee. 

As the long train 
Of ages glide away, the sons of men, 
The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes 
In tiie full strength of years, matron, and maid, 
And the sweet babe, and the gray-headed man — 
Shall one by one be gathered to thy side, 
By those who, in their turn, shall follow them. 

So live, that when thy summons comes to join 
The innumerable caravan, that moves 
To that mysterious realm, where each shall take 
His chamber in the silent halls of death, 
Thou go not, like the quarry -slave, at night, 
Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed 
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave, 
Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch 
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams. 

William Cullen Bkyant. 



RUTH. 49 



RUTH. 



She was a thing of grace; her movements were the poetry 
of motion, and her eyes were soft and mellow enough to 
throw any fanciful mind into an ecstasy of pleasure. She 
was beautifully pale, coyly shy, and languorously spirit- 
uelle. No Gainsborough hat tilted jauntily on the side 
of her head; no blushing rose, lit with the liquid pearls 
of night, found a warm nest in her ringlets; no fragrant 
sandalwood fan was open before her eyes, aud no Marie 
Antoinette slipper graced her small, crescent-like foot. 

She was the picture of rustic sweetness and simplicity, 
as she stood among the roses that shed their subtle per- 
fume round the porch. She walked to the gate and looked 
anxiously down the road, as though her susceptible soul 
was cradled in expectation, and, seeing no one approach, 
she returned to the stoop, but didn't engage her mind in 
the perusal of the latest novel. She didn't, as others often 
do, go into raptures over "Phillis," "Airy Fairy Lillian," 
or other books equally ridiculous. She never read novels 
at all — not even "The House of Secrets;" and, strange as 
it may seem, cared little for music, even the compositions 
of Bellini and Donizetti. She never went to the opera, 
and found little harmony in the tremulous music of a man- 
dolin; and she was even unacquainted with the poems of 
Dobson, Aldrich, Mortimer Collins, and Owen Meredith. 

It is very likely that no one ever saw a girl with her 
peculiar ideas. She had no ambition to go on the stage, 
and become a rival of Clara Morris; she never desired to 
gain immortal fame as a writer of magazine verses, or a 
compiler of fashion notes. She w*as never known to take 
an active part in a church fair, or to work slippers or smok- 
ing-caps for the minister. She was never present at the 
opening of a dry-goods store, and could be no more re- 
joiced at the prospect of a 77-cent sale than could an artist 
on being presented with a jew T eled cimeter. 



50 RtJTtf. 

Needle-work found in her no warm admirer, and decor- 
ative art was as far from her idea of the beautiful as one 
could well imagine. Variations in the fashions never 
troubled her. She little cared whether the kid gloves 
most in vogue were four or fourteen-buttoned. She never 
filled books with various autumn leaves, as do many young 
ladies whose minds incline to the sentimental side of life; 
and she never was known to rush upon a gentleman visi- 
tor and exclaim : 

" Now, Mr. Thompson, just see my new autograph 
album. Don't you think it is just too awfully cute for 
anything?" 

No, she was never guilty of such a social subterfuge — a 
subterfuge so called because the act is usually followed 
by a request that something be written in the album. 
She never sketched or painted, though it must be con- 
fessed that she delighted in pretty idylic pictures set in 
the frame of summer. She was fond of billowy, fragrant 
clover, and roses, and anemones, and running brooks, and 
waving ferns. She was also fond of pet dogs, and would 
run around the garden in happy spirits with them barking 
at her heels. 

It was the opinion of every one in the neighborhood that 
Ruth was a very peculiar composition of incongruities. No 
young gentleman cared about taking her to picnics or 
parties, and there was very little rivalry over her. But 
there was one thing every one admired in her, and that 
was her very high and dignified sense of propriety in all 
things. She was always about right, too. She would 
never correct a young man's grammar before a company. 
She would never leave church during the sermon; she 
would never enter church half an hour after the beginning 
of the services to exhibit her new hat to the congregation. 

Ruth was a model in many ways. While I have been 
digressing on her virtues and alleged vices, she has de- 
cided to walk to the woods, her spirit full of reverie, 



IiTNES ON A SKELETON. 51 

and her reverie full of the sunshine and glory of a sum- 
mer dream. Slowly she moves down the lane, without 
parasol or gloves, and seems like an airy creation of Elf- 
land. She hums a song after her own fashion while on 
her journey. After reaching the woods, she searches out 
her favorite bower beside the margin of a rippling brook 
— a bower in w T hich Titania might recline intoxicated with 
lute-notes and aromatic zephyrs. And here she pauses, 
and reclines her graceful figure on the delightful moss, 
and floats to a realm of violets and visions, where fairies 
play on mandolins in flower-bells, and all is buried in the 
hush of a purple after-glow. Thus she dreams until 
wakened by some small boys w r ho have come to drive her 
home. Kuth is a goat. R. K. Munkittrick. 



LINES ON A SKELETON. 

Behold this ruin! 'Twas a skull 

Once of ethereal spirit full. 

This narrow cell was Life's retreat, 

This space was Thought's mysterious seat. 

What beauteous visions filled this spot! 

What dreams of jideasure long forgot! 

Nor Hope, nor Joy, nor Love, nor Fear, 

Have left one trace of record here. 

Beneath this moldering canopy, 

Once shone the bright and busy eye; 

But start not at the dismal void — 

If social love that eye employed, 

If with no lawless fire it gleamed, 

But through the dews of kindness beamed, 

That eye shall be forever bright 

When stars and sun are sunk in night. 



52 IilNES ON A SKELETON. 

Within this hollow cavern hung 

The ready, swift, and tuneful tongue. 

If falsehood's honey it disdained, 

And when it could not praise, was chained, 

If bold in Virtue's cause it spoke, 

Yet gentle concord never broke! 

This silent tongue shall plead for thee 

When time unvails Eternity. 

Say, did these fingers delve the mine? 
Or with the envied rubies shine? 
To hew the rock or wear the gem 
Can little now avail to them. 
Bat if the page of truth they sought, 
Or comfort to the mourner brought, 
These hands a richer meed shall claim 
Than all that wait on Wealth or Fame. 

Avails it, whether bare or shod, 
These feet the path of duty trod? 
If from the bowers of Ease thev fled, 
To seek Affliction's humble shed; 
If Grandeur's guilty bribe they spurned, 
And home to Virtue's cot returned, 
These feet with angels' wings shall vie, 
And tread the palace of the sky. 

Anonymous. 



THE FRESHMAN'S STORY. 53 

THE FRESHMAN'S STOKY. 

When the old farmer came into the car, the only vacant 
seat was that beside a freshman who was reading a book. 
The old man wanted to be sociable, and patiently he said 
to the freshman: 

" You're fond of novels, I reckon?" 

"I? no," said the young man. " This isn't a novel. It 
is Hume's account of the 'Siege of Troy.' " 

" Troy, hey? I know all about that town. What's the 
book say in reference to it?" 

" Why, you know the whole trouble was caused by a 
woman named Helen, w r ho- " 

" Any last name?" 

"No; she was " 

"Did she go to the Presbyterian Church? A small wo- 
man with one eye a little warped? I'll bet anything I 
know that woman!" 

"And you know," said the freshman, with a far-away 
look in his eyes, "she came to Troy and went to live with 
Priam, who " 

" Prime! I knew a Ferguson who married a Prime. He 
was in the the truck business in Syracuse; had relations 
in Troy, most likely." 

" Helen's husband persuaded the Greeks to come with 
him to Troy to try to get her back again, and so they 
manned their ships and sailed toward the city." 

" Came up in the night boa!:, did they?" 

"Oh, no; it is believed that they used their oars over 
the entire distance." 

" Eowed up! Nobody but a lot of jackasses would have 
done that when they could have come right up the river 
shore on an express train." 

"As soon as they landed, the people of Troy closed the 
gates of the city, and " 

"What for?" 



54 THE freshman's story. 

"To keep them out, of course." 

" Alley gates or front gates?" 

"What?" 

"Goon; it makes no difference. I keep my back gate 
fastened, myself, on account of tramps. I suppose 
the " 

" The Greeks were led by a number of brave soldiers. 
Among these was Ulysses, who " 

"Who did you say?" 

"Ulysses, the " 

"See a here, young man, you're not telling the truth! 
Don't I know that Grant never came to Troy to fool with 
anybody's front gate! You ought to be ashamed of your- 
self to try to impose on a man who is old enough to be 
your grandfather!" 

"You don't understand. I mean that " 

"If a man don't want him for a third term, well and 
good; but there's no use of putting things on him that he 
never did." 

The freshman seemed to be absorbed in examining the 
landscape from the window. 

" And the leader of the Trojans," he said, " was a man 
named Hector. And he came out and stood on the wall, 
to observe the " 

"Bricklayer, was he?" 

"A soldier, and when the Greeks came up they de- 
manded that he should surrender Helen to her hus- 
band." 

" Why didn't he take out a writ of haebaes corpus! I 
know the judge in Troy. He'd a handed that woman over 
quicker 'n a wink." 

" Hector would not consent to give her up, and then the 
fighting began. They fought, and fought, and fought 
outside the city limits." 

"Well," said the old man, "I don't like to doubt your 
word, my son, but it's mighty queer there wa3 noth- 

\ 



the feeshman's stoey. 55 

ing about the fuss in any of the papeis. Where were 
the police?" 

"And one day, when the Trojans were all within the 
city, Ulysses came up to the gate, and, picking up a 
huge stone weighing three hundred pounds, he hurled it 
at " 

" Stop! Stop right there! How much did you say that 
stone weighed?" 

"Three or four hundred pounds." 

"And Grant picked it up?" 

"I said Ulysses picked it up, and with it he burst the 
gate to splinters." 

" So young, and yet so wicked," said the old man, sadly. 
"My son, what you want is a terrible lot of moral disci- 
pline, laid on thick and rubbed in hard. I never heard 
your equal at fiction." 

11 Well," said the freshman, examining the 74th page of 
his book, and apparently not heeding the old man, "after 
a number of combats Hector came out one day, and he and 
Achilles had a fight all by themselves." 

"With gloves?" 

"And when they had exchanged a good many blows, 
Hector started to run, and he ran clear around Troy three 
times with Achilles in close pursuit." 

" Young man, if you don't stop that kind of thing, I'll 
change my seat! You couldn't make me believe that any 
man had as good wind as that, if you were under oath." 

"On the third lap Achilles overtook him, and killed him 
on the spot." 

"Did the case come before the grand jury?" 

"But this, you know, did not let the Greeks into the 
city. And how do you think they finally got in?" 

"Took the horse-cars?" 

" Of course not." 

"Marched in in a torchlight procession?" 

"No." 



56 the freshman's story. 

" Came in the band-wagon of a circus?" 

"No; they made a wooden horse, hollow, and " 

"Made a wooden horse holloa! There you go again! 
Why don't you give up that bad habit of violating the 
truth?" 

"And they put a band of men inside the horse who " 

" Rocking horse, did you say?" 

"Who laid low until the horse got into the city, when 
they sprang out, opened the gates, let iu their friends, and 
then the whole party burned the city to ashes." 

The old man looked anxiously at the freshman. He 
seemed hurt and offended by the youth's depravity. Then 
he said, mournfully: 

" And when do you say all this happened?" 

"About three thousand years ago." 

The aged man buried his face in his hands and groaned. 

"Why, you phenomenal liar! Don't I Jcaow that Troy 
was founded upon the banks of the Hudson later than 
1786." 

The train stopped, and the freshman rose to get out. As 
he went through the door of the car, the old farmer leaned 
over the man in Hie seat in front of him and said: 

" See that boy going out there?' 

"Yes." 

" Well, what he wants is about eight thousand years of 
steady going to Sunday-school. He can outlie any boy of 
his size in the temperate zone." Max Adeler. 



JUST ONE. 57 

JUST ONE. 

Just one little cloudlet, a miniature trifle, 

Just one little spot on the bright shining sun; 

Just one little blemish, a sunbeam to rifle, 
And yet in that moment the storm had begun. 

Just one little splash on the fair bosomed river, 
Just one little rain-drop, succeeded by more; 

Just one throb responsive deep waters deliver, 
Then to passionate heaving and swaying give o'er. 

Just one little flaw 'neath the clear alabaster, 

Hath many a beautiful figure defaced; 
Just one rapturous moment hath wrought grave disaster. 

And fashioned a blot which could ne'er be erased. 

Just one fairy castle, in innocence builded, 
Whate'er its foundation, 'twas fair to behold; 

Its halls were of faith, and its panels were gilded 
With a trust that its object in grace did infold. 

Just one little blow and the castle lay shattered, 
Almost without effort 'twas felled to the earth; 

Its doors were unhinged and its windows were battered; 
Lo! A grief to the heart that had given it birth. 

Just one ray of hope, and the torch was relighted, 
Which pointed whereby had such rule occurred; 

Just one beacon light, and no longer benighted, 
A chord of true, fervent devotion was stirred. 

Just one swift resolve to avert coming sorrow, 

One quick flash of thought, which allotted its due, 

Doth yield deep content, which another may borrow, 
And never have cause the insignia to rue. 



58 SPEAK NO HiL. 

Just one little prayer, winging softly toward heaven, 
A fluttering breath, like a wandering waif; 

Just one trembling tear-drop runs counter the leaven, 
And the murmur re-echoes, * 'Thank God, we are safe." 

Azalea E. Osgood. 



SPEAK NO ILL. 

Nay, speak no ill! a kindly word 

Can never leave a sting behind, 
And, oh! to breathe each tale we've heard 

Is far beneath a noble mind. 
Full oft a better seed is sown 

By choosing thus the kinder plan; 
For if little good be known, 

Still let us speak the best we can. 

Give me the heart that fain would hide, 

Would fain another's fault efface; 
How can it please our human pride, 

To prove humanity but base? 
No; let us reach a higher mood, 

A noble estimate of man; 
Be earnest in search for good, 

And speak of all the best we can. 

Then speak no ill, but lenient be 

To other's failings as your own; 
If you're the first a fault to see, 

Be not the first to make it known; 
For life is but a passing day, 

No lip can tell how brief its span; 
Then, oh! the little time we stay, 

Let's speak of all the best we can. 

Chakles Swain. 



ODE TO MY LITTLE SON. 59 



ODE TO MY LITTLE SON, 

Thou happy, happy elf! 
(But stop— first let me kiss away that tear!) 

Thy tiny image of myself! 
(My love, he's poking peas into his ear!) 

Thou merry, laughing sprite! 

With spirits, feather light, 
Untouched by sorrow, and unsoiled by sin, 
(Good heavens! the child is swallowing a pin!) 

Thou little tricksy Puck! 
With antic toys so funnily bestuck, 
Light as the singing bird that wings the air, 
(The door! the door! he'll tumble down the stair!) 

Thou darling of thy sire! 
(Why, Jane, he'll set his pinafore afire!) 

Thou imp of mirth and joy! 
In love's dear chain so strong and bright a link, 
Thou idol of thy parents (Drat the boy! 

There goes my ink!) 

Thou cherub — but of earth; 
Fit playfellow for Fays by moonlight pale, 

In harmless sport and mirth, 
(That dog will bite him, if he pulls his tail!) 
Thou human humming-bee, extracting honey 
From every blossom in the world that blows, 
Singing in youth's Elysium ever funny, 
(Another tumble — that's his precious nose!) 

Thy father's pride and hope! 
(He'll break the mirror with that skipping-rope!) 
With pure heart newly stamped from nature's mint, 
(Where did he learn that squint!) 



60 ODE TO MY LITTLE SON. 

Thou young domestic dove! 
(He'll have that jag- off with another shove!) 

Dear nursliug of the hymeneal nest! 

(Are those torn clothes his best?) 

Little epitome of man! 
(He'll climb upon the table, that's his plan!) 
Touched with the beauteous tints of dawning life, 

(He's got a knife!) 

Thou enviable being! 
No storms, no clouds, in thy blue sky foreseeing, 

Play on, play on, 

My elfin John! 



Toss the light ball— bestride the stick, 
(I knew so many cakes would make him sick!) 
With fancies buoyant as the thistle-down, 
Prompting the face grotesque, and antic brisk 

With many a lamb -like frisk, 
(He's got the scissors, snipping at your gown!) 

Thou pretty opening rose! 
(Go to your mother, child, and wipe your nose!) 
Balmy, and breathing music like the south, 
(He really brings my heart into my mouth!) 
Fresh as the morn, and brilliant as its star, 
(I wish that window had an iron bar!) 
Bold as a hawk, yet gentle as a dove, 
(I'll tell you what, my love, 
I cannot write, unless he's sent above!) 

Thomas Hood. 



THE SURPRISE PARTY. 61 

THE SURPRISE PARTY. 

John Pinchbeck lived on Murray Hill, 

The tipper-crust among; 
He had a healthy bank account, 

His wife was fair and young. 
He earned a handsome competence 

By selling hides and leather; 
His head was level, and his heart 

As light as any feather. 

But John's wife, pretty though she was, 

And sociable and free; 
Was fond of taking on French airs, 

When in society. 
To see the lady in her silks 

And diamonds arrayed 
'Twas hard to b'lieve she once had been 

A simple dairy maid. 

But so it was — and one fine day 

A couple stout and jolly — 
Zeke Soper and his wife came down 

To see their darling Polly. 
For Polly was the lady's name, 

When at her spiuning-wheel, 
But now she'd changed it to Pauline, 

As being more genteel. 

"Oh, lawful sakes!" Zeke's wife cried out, 

When she the mansion stood in, 
ll l hope I never more may see 

A bowl of hasty puddin'. 
If this ain't scrumshious! Only see 

The picters on the ceilin'! 
As nat'ral as life! Why, Zeke, 

I'm on the p'int o' squealin'! 



62 THE SURPRISE PARTY. 

"Ifc*s fresco, is it? Well, I vow, 

I'm drefful glad you told me! 
And see the carpets and the cheers, 

And sofys! Zeke, hold me! 
I'm nigh a bustin' with amaze! 

I really am! Why, Polly, 
With all these fixin's 'round you, gal, 

You must be awful jolly! 

"It's mighty fine! But, goodness me, 

Zeke, see them naked figgers 
A-standing on the mantel-piece; 

They make me blush, by jiggers! 
You say they're noble works of art, 

And great folks come to view 'em? 
Well, Polly dear, if I was you 

I'd put some clothes onto 'em. 

"What's that you say? Pauline's your name 

Good gracious me, what folly! 
Why, weren't I by, you silly thing, 

When you was christened Polly? 
And if the name was good enough 

For your dear, blessed mother, 
It's good enough for you. and I 

Sha'n't call you any other. 

"But, speaking of your christnin', Poll, 

To me it is bewilderin' 
That you've been married seven years 

And ain't had any children. 
Your ma had twelve and I've had eight — 

Now, Polly dear, confess it, 
A house, though grand, ain't worth a snap, 

Without a babe to bless it. 



<( 



THE SURPRISE PARTY. 63 

But, deary me, I'm tired out! 

My bones are ackin' cruel — 
Come, Polly, show us to our room — 

I'd like a bowl of gruel. 
And can't you get some boneset tea, 

And mustard for a body, 
And a warm band iron for my feet? 

And Zeke would like some toddy! 



Next evening, Mrs. Pinchbeck thus 

Addressed her lord and master: 
Oh, husband, how can we survive 

This terrible disaster? 
I'll die — I know I shall — if aunt 

And uncle with us tarry 
Till they are seen by proud Miss Sharp 

And jealous Mrs. Barry. 



"Such a disgrace! Just think of it! 

This morning at the table, 
The servants, though afraid to laugh 

Aloud, were scarcely able 
To hide their mirth, when Uncle Zeke, 

By Aunt Jerusha followed, 
Picked up the half -filled finger bowl 

And all the water swallowed! 

Just then the hall-bell rang aloud, 
And soon a summons hearty 

Smote on the lady' sstartled ear, 

"Ha! Pinchbeck! Here's a party! 

We've come to give you a surprise, 
We know you'll be delighted — 

And welcome us right cordially, 
Though we were not invited?" 



64 THE SUEPBISE PABTY. 

Poor Mrs. Pinchbeck! How was she 

The dreadful blow to parry? 
She heard the voices of her friends, 

Miss Sharp and Mrs. Barry. 
And many others whom she knew 

Delighted to perplex her, 
And who would rummage high and low 

To scandalize and vex her. 



"Friends!" cried the lady, " welcome all- 

I'm glad to see you, really ! 
Just pass down to the dining-room 

And use the closets freely — 
But please don't come up stairs, for we 

Two friends are entertaining — 
Distinguished persons from abroad — 

Both nervous and complaining! 

Oh, horror! Even as she spoke, 

A voice that made her shiver 
Came from above, "Oh, Zeke!" it cried 

"That sirup for my liver! 
I've left it in the room below — 

I cannot do without it — 
Besides, there's company down stairs — 

Let's go and ask about it!" 

Ere Mrs. Pinchbeck could prevent 

The act that her degraded, 
The aged couple merrily 

The dining-room invaded. 
To make the matter worse, old Zeke 

Had taken too much toddy, 
And felt that he was just as rich 

And grand as anybody. 



THE SURPRISE PARTY. 65 

"Why, bow d' due, good folks!" lie cried, 

And then at Mrs. Barry 
He winked and said facetiously, 

"Lord, what a spread you carry! 
Well, make yourselves to bum at once! 

Away with melancholy; 
Hurrah! Let's have a straight-four dance! 

Jerushy, where is Polly? 

" She needn't keep herself so shy 

Because she's got a fortun', 
She was as poor as any one 

'Fore Pinchbeck did his courtin' — 
But this I'll always say for Poll — 

No other gal, I reckon, 
Could ekal her at dairy work, 

At washin' or at bakin'. 

Ah, here she is! and Pinchbeck, too! 

Come, folks, bring on your riddle, 
And let us have an old-time dance, 

Up sides and down the middle. 
Come Polly, put your best licks in, 

Just as you used to do it, 
At all our frolics down to hum — 

Go on, I'll see yeou through it!" 

Thus Uncle Zekel rattled on, 

And when his tongue had tired, 
Old Aunt Jerush took up the theme, 

With emulation fired. 
She told her niece's history, 

From childhood till she married, 
While Mrs. Pinchbeck helpless stood, 

And not a thrust was parried. 



66 THE SURPRISE PARTY. 

Let's close the scene — a week passed by — 

The Pinchbecks, half demented, 
Were writhing still when they received 

A note with perfume scented, 
From Mrs. Barry. Thus it read: 

" To Mrs. Pinchbeck greeting: 
Dear friend — the ladies of our set 

Are soon to have a meeting. 

" Our object is to call upon 

And speak with Madame Herman, 
About the getting up in style 

Of our forthcoming german. 
And if you'll send us the address 

Of your high-bred relations, 
I'll see that they as well as you, 

Are granted invitations." 

The moral of my story is 

That pride must have a tumble — 
That those who in their wealth forget 

They once were poor and humble — 
Who think they wear so close a mask, 

That no one can detect it, 
May come to grief with all their airs, 

E'en when they least expect it. 

Francis S. Smith 



THE MEN TO MAKE A STATE. 67 

THE MEN TO MAKE A STATE. 

The men to make a staternust be intelligent men. I 
do not mean that they must know that two and two 
make four; or, that six per cent, a year is half per 
cent a month. I take a wider and a higher range. 
I limit myself to no mere utilitarian intelligence. This 
has its place. And this will come almost unsought. 
The contact of the rough and rugged world vf\\\ force men 
to it in self-defense. The lust of worldly gain will drag 
men to it in self-aggrandizement. But men so made, will 
never make a state. The intelligence which that demands 
will take a wider and a higher range. Its study will be 
man. It will make history its cheap experience. It will 
read hearts. It will know men. It will first know itself. 
What, else can govern men? Who else can know the men 
to govern men? The right of suffrage is a fearful thing. 
It calls for wisdom, and discretion, and intelligence, of no 
ordinary standard. It takes in, at every exercise, the in- 
terests of all the nation. Its results reach forward through 
time into eternity. Its discharge must be accounted for 
among the dread responsibilities of the great day of judg- 
ment. Who will go to it blindly? Who will go to it 
passionately? Who will go to it, as a sycophant, a tool, a 
slave? How many do! These are not the men to make a 
state. 

The men to make a state must be honest men. I do 
not mean men that would never steal I do not mean men 
that would scorn to cheat in making change. I mean men 
with a single/ace. I mean men with a single eye. I mean 
men with a single tongue. I mean men that consider always 
what is right; and to do it at whatever cost. I mean men 
who can dine, like Andrew Marvel, on a neck of mutton; 
and whom, therefore, no king on earth can buy. Men that 
are in the market for the highest bidder; men that make 
politics their trade, and look to office for a living; men that 



68 THE MEN TO MAKE A STATE. 

will crawl, where they cannot climb; these are not the men 
to make a state. 

The men, to make a state, must be brave men. I do not 
mean men that pick a quarrel. I do not mean the men 
that carry dirks. I do not mean the men that call them- 
selves hard names; as Bouncers, Killers, and the like. I 
mean the men that walk with open face and unprotected 
breast. I mean the men that do, but do not talk. I mean 
the men that dare to stand alone. I mean the men that are 
to-day where they were yesterday, and will be there to-mor- 
row. I mean the men that can stand still and take the 
storm. I mean the men that are afraid to kill, but not 
afraid to die. The man that calls hard names and uses 
threats; the man that stabs, in secret, with his tongue or 
with his pen; the man that moves a mob to deeds of vio- 
lence and self-destruction; the man that freely offers his 
last drop of blood, but never sheds the first; these are not 
the men to make a state. 

The men to make a state must be religious men. States 
are from God. States are dependent upon God. States are 
accountable to God. To leave God out of states, is to be 
Atheists. I do not mean that men must cant I do not 
mean that men must wear long faces. I do not mean that 
men must talk of conscience, while they take your spoons. 
One shrewdly called hypocrisy, the tribute which vice pays 
to virtue. These masks and visors, in like manner, are 
the forced concession which a moral nature makes him, 
whom, at the same time, it dishonors. I speak of men 
who feel and own a God. I speak of men who feel and 
own their sins. I speak of men who think the Cross no 
shame. I speak of men who have it in their heart as well 
as on their brow. The men that own no future, the men 
that trample on the Bible, the men that never pray, are 
not'Wxe men to make a state. 

The men, to make a state, are made by faith. A man 
that has no faith, is so much flesh. His heart, a muscle; 



THE MEN TO MAKE A STATE. 69 

nothing more. He has no past for reverence; no future 
for reliance. He lives. So does a clam. Both die. Such 
men cau never make a state. There must be faith, which 
furnishes the fulcrum Archimedes could not find, for the 
long lever that should move the world. There must be 
faith to look through clouds and storms up to the sun that 
shines as cheerily on high as on creation's morn. There 
must be faith that can lay hold of heaven, and let the 
earth swing from beneath it, if God will. There must be 
faith that can afford to sink the present in the future; and 
let time go, in its strong grasp upon eternity. This is the 
way that men are made to make a state. 

The men to make a state are made by self-denial. The 
willow dallies with the water, and is fanned forever by its 
coolest breeze, and draws its waves up in continual pulses 
of refreshment and delight; and is a willow, after all. An 
acorn has been loosened, some autumnal morning, by a 
squirrel's foot. It finds a nest in some rude cleft of an old 
granite rock, where there is scarcely earth to cover it. It 
knows no shelter, and it feels no shade. It squares itself 
against the storms. It shoulders through the blast. It 
asks no favor, and gives none. It grapples with the rock. 
It crowds up toward the sun. It is an oak. It has been 
seventy years an oak. It ivill be an oak for seven times 
seventv vears; unless vou need a man-of-war to thunder at 
the foe that shows a flag upon the shore, where freemen 
dwell; and then you take no willow in its daintiness and 
gracefulness; but that old, hardy, storm-stayed and storm- 
strengthened oak. So are the men made that will make a 
state. 

The men to make a state are themselves made by 
obedience. Obedience is the health of human hearts; 
obedience to God; obedience to father and to mother, who 
are, to children, in the place of God; obedience to teachers 
and to masters, who are in the place of father and of 
mother; obedience to spiritual pastors, who are God's 



70 MOTHEB AND CHILD. 

ministers; and the powers that be, which are ordained of 
God. Obedience is but self government in action; and he 
can never govern men who does not govern first himself. 
Only such men can make a state. George W. Doane. 



MOTHEE AND CHILD. 

Drunk and disorderly — so it was said, 
Into the court-room the culprit was led; 
There on her dark and unwomanly face 
Lingered the signs of her shame and disgrace, 
Soiled with the mud in whose depths she had Iain- 
All the sweet instincts of modesty slain — 

Standing so boldly there, 

Waiting so coldly there, 
Hearing her sentence with sullen disdain. 

Sternly the justice looked down from his seat — 
Down at the woman who stood at his feet; 
Wondering how she had wandered so far 
From the clear heights where the virtuous are. 
Ah, how unlovely she seemed in the gloom, 
There in that dismal and crowded court-room, 

Treading unthinkingly, 

Going unshrinkingly 
On to the depths of her terrible doom! 

Suddenly, strangely, his features grew mild, 
There on her breast lay a pure little child, 
Smiling at him with such innocent eyes, 
Bhie in their depths as the bonny blue skies. 
Over her shoulder it struggled to climb, 
Sweetly unconscious of sorrow or crime, 

Laughing so merrily, 

Beautiful, verily — 
Fair as a lilv-bud found in the slime. 



MOTHER AND CHTLD. 71 

Softly be spoke to the woman — and then 
Out from that dim, noisy court-room again 
Bore she her baby, with faltering tread — 
Freed for the sake of that innocent head. 
Just for a moment the bonny wee child 
Backward looked, over her shoulder and smiled; 

Lying so sweetly there — 

Cursed so completely there, 
By the foul touch of those fingers defiled. 

Sadly the justice bent over his book, 
Asking himself, as he thought of that look, 
Through what dark pathways of sin and deceit 
Fortune would carry those small, winsome feet. 
Ah, that a blossom so tender should rest, 
There on that hard and unwomanly breast! 

One so undutiful 

Crowned with the beautiful! 
Sin by the glory of motherhood blest. 

Think of it, fathers, when sweet eyes of brown 
Watch through the window your coming from town. 
Plump little feet patter over the floor, 
Eager to meet your warm kiss at the door; 
Tiny wee hands draw your chair to its place — 
Fairy-like forms clamber up to your face — 

Cherished so carefully, 

Nurtured so prayerfully, 
Kept from all knowledge of shame or disgrace. 

Dream of it mothers, when lullabies sung 
Over the cradle so tenderly swung 
Blend with the laugh of the baby that lies 
Warm in the light of your watchful blue eyes. 
Ah, but how proudly you guard her from harm. 



72 A BTTJi FROM THE TOWN PUMP. 

Keeping her safe from all thought of alarm — 

Kissing, caressing her, 

Loriugly pressing her 
Close to jour heart in jour sheltering arm. 

Nelly B. Simmons. 



A RILL FROM THE TOWN PUMP. 

At this sultry noontide, I am cupbearer to the parched 
populace, for whose benefit an iron goblet is chained to 
my waist. Like a dram seller on the mall, at muster day, 
I cry aloud to all and sundry, in my plainest accents, and 
at the very tip-top of my voice. Here it is, gentlemen! 
Here is the good liquor! Walk up, walk up, gentlemen, 
walk up, walk up! Here is the superior stuff! Here is 
the unadulterated ale of Father Adam —better than Cognac, 
Holland, Jamaica, strong beer, or wine of any price; here 
it is by the hogshead or single glass, and not a cent to pay! 
Walk up, geijtlemen, walk up, and help yourselves! It 
were a pity, if all this outcry should draw no customers. 
Here they come. A hot day, gentlemen! Quaff, aud 
away again, so as to keep yourselves in a nice, cool 
sweat. 

Welcome, most rubicund sir! You and I have been 
great strangers hitherto; nor, to confess the truth, wall my 
nose be anxious for a closer intimacy, till the fumes of 
your breath be a little less potent. Mercy on you, man! 
the water absolutely hisses down! Fill again, and tell me, 
on the word of an honest toper, did you ever, in cellar, 
tavern, or any kind of dram shop, spend the price of your 
children's food, for a swig half so delicious? Now, for the 
first time these ten years, you know the flavor of cold water. 
Good-by; and, whenever you are thirsty, remember that I 
keep a constant supply, at the old stand. 

Who next? Oh, my little friend, you are let loose from 



A RILL FROM THE TOWN PUMP. 73 

school, and come hither to scrub your blooming face, and 
drown the memory of certain taps of the ferule, and 
other schoolboy troubles, in a draught from the Town 
Pump. Take it, pure as the current of your young life. Take 
it, and may your heart and tongue never be scorched with a 
fiercer thirst than now. There, my dear child, put down 
the cup, and yield your place to this elderly gentleman, 
who treads so tenderly over the paving stones, that I sus- 
pect he is afraid of breaking them. 

What! he limps by, without so much as thanking me, 
as if my hospitable offers were meant only for people who 
have no wine cellars. Well, well, sir; no harm done, I 
hope! Go, draw the cork, tip the decanter; but, when 
your great toe shall set you a-roaring, it will be no affair of 
mine. This thirsty dog, with red tongue lolling out, does 
not scorn my hospitality, but stands on bis hind legs, and 
laps eagerly out of the trough. See how lightly he capers 
away again. Jowler, did your worship ever have the gout? 
Are you all satisfied? Then wipe your mouths, my good 
friends; and, while my spout has a moment's leisure, 
I will delight the town with a few historical reminis- 
cences. 

In far antiquity, beneath a darksome shadow of vener- 
able boughs, a sjuring bubbled out of the leaf-strewn earth, 
in the very spot where you now behold me, on the sunny 
pavement. But, in the course of time, a Town Pump was 
sunk into the source of the ancient spring; and, when the 
first decayed, another took its place — and then another, 
and still another — till here stand I, gentlemen and ladies, 
to serve you with my iron goblet. Drink, and be refreshed! 
The water is pure and cold as that which slacked the 
thirst of the red sagamore, beneath the aged boughs, 
though now the gem of the wilderness is treasured under 
these hot stones, where no shadow falls, but frcrn the 
brick buildings. And be it the moral of my story, that, 
as this wasted and long-lost fountain is now known and 



74 A KILL FROM THE TOWN PUMP. 

prized again, so shall the virtues of cold water, too little 
valued since your father's days, be recognized by all. 

Your pardon, good people! I must interrupt my stream 
of eloquence, and spout forth a stream of water, to re- 
plenish the trough for this teamster and his two yoke of 
oxen, who have come from Topsfield, or somewhere along 
that way. No part of my business is pleasanter than the 
watering of cattle. Look! how rapidly they lower the 
watermark on the sides of the trough, till their capacious 
stomachs are moistened with a gallon or two apiece, and 
they can afford time to breathe it in, with sighs of calm 
enjoyment. Now they roll their quiet eyes around the 
brim of their monstrous drinking vessels. An ox is your 
true toper. 

But I perceive, my dear auditors, that you are impatient 
for the remainder of my discourse. Impute it, I beseech 
you, to no defect of modesty, if I insist a little longer on 
so fruitful a topic as my own multifarious merits. It is 
altogether for your good. The better you think of me, the 
better men and women you will find yourselves. I shall 
say nothing of my all-important aid on washing days; 
though, on that account alone, I might call myself the 
household god of a hundred families. Far be it from me, 
also, to hint, my respectable friends, at the show of dirty 
faces, which you w r ould present, without my pains to keep 
you clean. 

Nor will I remind you how often, when the midnight 
bells make you tremble for your combustible town, you 
have fled to the Town Pump, and found me always at my 
post, firm, amid the confusion, and ready to drain my 
vital current in your behalf. Neither is it worth while to 
lay much stress on my claims to a medical diploma, as the 
physician, whose simple rule of practice is preferable to 
all the nauseous lore which has found men sick or left 
them so, since the days of Hippocrates. Let us take a 
broader view of my beneficial influence on mankind. 



A RILL FROM THE TOWN PUMP. 75 

No! these are trifles, compared with the merits which 
wise men concede to me — if not in my single self, yet as 
the representative of a class — of being the grand reformer 
of the age. From my spout, and such spouts as mine, must 
flow the stream that shall cleanse our earth of the vast por- 
tion of its crime and anguish, which has gushed from the 
fiery fountains of the still. In this mighty enterprise, the 
cow shall be my great confederate. Milk and water! The 
Town Pump and the Cow! Such is the glorious co-part- 
nership that shall tear down the distilleries and brew- 
houses, uproot the vineyards, shatter the cider-presses, 
ruin the tea and coffee trade, and, finally, monopolize 
the whole business of quenching thirst. Blessed con- 
summation! 

Ahem! Dry work, this speechifying; especially to an 
unpracticed orator. I never conceived till now, what toil 
the temperance lecturers undergo for my sake. Hereafter, 
they shall have the business to themselves. Do, some kind 
Christian, pump a stroke or two, just to wet my whistle. 
Thank you, sir! My dear hearers, when the world shall 
have been regenerated, by my instrumentality, you will 
collect your useless vats and liquor casks into one groat 
pile, and make a bonfire, in honor of the Town Pump. 
And, when I shall have decayed, like my predecessors, 
then, if yon revere my memory, let a marble fountain, 
richly sculptured, take my place upon the spot. 

Nathaniel Hawthorne. 



76 THE BLIND BOY'S SPEECH. 



THE BLIND BOY'S SPEECH. 

Thiuk not that blindness makes me sad, 
My thoughts, like yours, are often glad, 
Parents I have, who love me well, 
Their different voices I can tell. 
Though far away from them, I hear, 
In dreams, their music meets my ear, 
Is there a star so dear above 
As the low voice of one you love? 

I never saw mv father's face, 
Yet on his forehead when I place 
My hand, and fe*4 the wrinkles there, 
Left less by time than anxious care, 
I fear the world has sights of woe, 
To knit the brows of manhood so — 
I sit upon my father's knee; 
He'd loved me less, if I could see. 

I never saw my mother smile; 
Her gentle tones my heart beguile. 
They fall like distant melody — 
They are so mild and sweet to me. 
She murmurs not — my mother dear! 
Though sometimes I have kissed the tear 
From her soft cheek, to tell the joy 
One smiling word w T ouid give her boy. 

Right merry was I every day! 

Fearless to run about and play 

With sisters, brothers, friends, and all — 

To answer to their sudden call, 

To join the ring, to speed the chase, 

To find each playmate's hiding-place, 

And pass my hand across his brow, 

To tell him I could do it now! 



THE HEAVENS DECLARE THE GLORY OF GOD. 77 

Yet, though delightful flew the hours, 
So passed in childhood's peaceful bowers, 
When all were gone to school but I, 
I used to sit at home and sigh; 
' And, though I never longed to view 
The earth so green, the sky so blue, 
I thought I'd give the world to look 
Along the pages of a book. 

Now, since I learned to read and write, 

My heart is filled with new delight; 

And music, too -can there be found 

A sight so beautiful as sound*! 

Tell me, kind friends, in one short word, 

Am I not like a captive bird? 

I live in song, and peace, and joy — 

Though blind, a merry-hearted boy! 

Park Benjamin. 



THE HEAVENS DECLARE THE GLORY OF GOD. 

The spacious firmament on high, 

With all the blue ethereal sky, 

And spangled heavens, a shiuing flame, 

Their great Origiual proclaim; 

Th' unwearied Sun, from day to day, 

Does his Creator's powers display, 

And publishes to every land 

The work of an Almighty hand. 

Soon as the evening shades prevail, 
The Moon takes up the wondrous tale, 
And nightly to the listening earth, 
Repeats the story of her birth; 
While all the stars that round her burn, 



78 NOTHING BUT LEAVES. 

And all the planets in their turn, 

Confirm the tidings as they roll, 

And spread the truth from pole to pole. 

What though, in solemn silence, all 
Move round the dark terrestrial ball? 
What though no real voice or sound 
Amid their radiant orbs be found? 
In Beason's ear they all rejoice, 
And utter forth a glorious voice, 
Forever singing as they shine, 
" The Hand that made us, is divine!" 

Joseph Addison. 



NOTHING BUT LEAVES. 

Nothing but leaves; the spirit grieves 

Over a wasted life; 
Sin committed while conscience slept, 
Promises made but never kept, 

Hatred, battle, and strife; 
Nothing but leaves! 

Nothing but leaves; no garnered sheaves 

Of life's fair, ripened grain ; 
Words, idle words, for earnest deeds; 
We sow our seeds — lo! tares and weeds; 

We reap with toil and pain 
Nothing but leaves! 

Nothing but leaves; memory weaves 

No vail to screen the past; 
As we retrace our weary way, 
Counting each lost and misspent day — 

We find, sadly, at last, 
Nothing but leaves! 



LAUGH ON, LAUGH ON, TO-DAY ! 79 

And shall we meet the Master so, 

Bearing our withered leaves? 
The Saviour looks for perfect fruit — 
We stand before him, humbled, mute; 

Waiting the words he breathes — 
Nothing but leaves! 

Lucy Evelina Ackekman. 



LAUGH ON, LAUGH ON, TO-DAY! 

Laugh on, fair cousins, for to you 

All life is joyous yet; 
Your hearts have all things to pursue, 

And nothing to regret; 
And every flower to you is fair, 

And every month is May; 
You've not been introduced to Care — 

Laugh on, laugh on, to-day! 

Old Time will fling his clouds ere long 

Upon those sunny eyes; 
The voice whose every word is song, 

Will set itself to sighs; 
Your quiet slumbers — hopes and fears 

Will chase their rest away; 
To-morrow, you'll be shedding tears— 

Laugh on, laugh on, to-day! 

Oh, yes; if any truth is found 

In the dull schoolman's theme — 
If friendship is an empty sound, 

And love an idle dream — 
If mirth, youth's playmate, feels fatigue 

Too soon on life's long way, 
At least, he'll run with you a league — 

Laugh on, laugh on, to-day! 



80 laugh on, laugh on, to-day ! 

Perhaps your eyes may grow more bright 

As childhood's hues depart; 
You may be lovelier to the sight, 

And dearer to the heart; 
You may be sinless still, and see 

This earth still green and gay; 
But what you are you will not be, 

Laugh on, laugh on, to-day! 

O'er me have many winters crept, 

With less of grief than joy; 
But I have learned, and toiled, and wept — 

I am no more a boy! 
" I've never had the gout, 'tis true, 

My hair is hardly gray; 
But now /cannot laugh like you; 

Laugh on, laugh on, to-day! 

I used to have as glad a face, 

As shadowless a brow; 
I once could run as blithe a race 

As you are running now; 
But never mind how /behave, 

Don't interrupt your play, 
And, though I look so very grave, 

Laugh on, laugh on, to-day! 

Winthrop M. Peaed. 



SPIRITUAL FREEDOM — WHAT IS IT ? 81 

SPIBITUAL FKEEDOM— WHAT IS IT? 

1 call that mind free, which masters the senses, which pro- 
tects itself against animal appetites, which contemns pleas- 
ure and pain in comparison with its own energy, which 
penetrates beneath the body and recognizes its own reality 
and greatness, which passes life, not in asking what it shall 
eat or drink, but in hungering, thirsting, and seeKiug 
after righteousness. 

I call that mind free, which escapes the bondage of mat- 
ter, which, instead of stopping at the material universe, 
and making it a prison-wall, passes beyond it to its 
Author, and finds in the radiant signatures which it every- 
where bears of the Infinite Spirit, helps to its own spirit- 
ual enlargement. 

I CftU that mind free, which jealously guards its intellec- 
tual rights and powers, which calls no man master, which 
does not content itself with a passive or hereditary faith, 
which opens itself to light whencesoever it may come, 
which receives new truth as an angel from heaven, which, 
while consulting others, inquires still more of the oracle 
within itself, and uses instruction from abroad, not to 
supersede, but to quicken and pxalt its own energies. 

I call that mind free, which sets no bounds to its love, 
which is not imprisoned in itself or in a sect, which re- 
cognizes in all human beings the image of God, and the 
rights of His children, which delights iu virtue and sym- 
pathizes with suffering, wherever they are seen, which con- 
quers pride, anger, and sloth, and offers itself up a willing 
victim to the cause of mankind. 

1 call that mind free, which is not passively framed by 
outward circumstances, which is not swept away by the 
torrents of events, which is not the creature of accidental 
impulse, but which bends events to its own improvement, 
and acts from an inward spring, from immutable princi- 
ples which it has deliberately espoused. 



82 SPIRITUAL FREEDOM — WHAT IS IT ? 

/ call that mind free, which protects itself against 
the usurpations of society, which does not cower to 
human opinion, which feels itself accountable to a higher 
tribunal than man's, which respects a higher law than 
fashion, which respects itself too much to be the slave or 
tool of the many or the few. 

/ call that mind free, which, through confidence in God, 
and, in the power of virtue, has cast off all fear but that 
of wrong doing, which no menace or peril can enthrall, 
which is calm in the midst of tumults, and possesses it- 
self, though all else be lost. 

I call that mind free, which resists the bondage of habit, 
which does not mechanically repeat itself and copy the 
past, which does not live on its old virtues, which does not 
enslave itself to precise rules, but which forgets what is 
behind, listens for new and higher monitions of con- 
science, and rejoices to pour itself forth in fresh and higher 
exertions. 

1 call that mind free, which is jealous of its own freedom, 
which guards itself from being merged in others, which 
guards its empire over itself as nobler than the empire of 
the world. 

In fine, I call that mind free, which, conscious of its 
affinity with God, and confiding in His promises by Jesus 
Christ, devotes itself faithfully to the unfolding of all its 
powers, which passes the bounds of time and death, which 
hopes to advance forever, and which finds inexhaustible 
power, both for action and suffering, in the prospect of 
immortality. William Ellery Channing. 



KING OUT THE OLD YEAR. 83 



RING OUT THE OLD YEAR. 

Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky, 
The flying cloud, the frosty light; 
The year is dying in the night; 

Ring out, wild bells, and let him die! 

Ring out the old, ring in the new, 
Ring, happy bells, across the snow. 
The year is going, let him go; 

Ring out the false, ring in the true! 

Ring out the grief that saps the mind, 
For those that here we see no more; 
Ring out the feud of rich and poor, 

Ring in redress to all mankind. 

Ring out a slowly dying cause, 
And ancient forms of party strife; 
Ring in the nobler modes of life, 

With sweeter manners, purer laws. 

Ring out the want, the care, the sin, 
The faithless coldness of the times; 
Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes, 

But ring the fuller minstrel in. 

Ring out false pride in place and blood, 
The civic slander and the spite; 
Ring in the love of truth and right, 

Ring in the common love of good. 

Ring out old shapes of foul disease^ 
Ring out the narrowing lust of gold; 
Ring out the thousand wars of old, 

Ring in the thousand years of peace. 



84 SANTA CLAUS' STOCKING. 

'Ring in the valiant man and free, 
The larger heart, the kindlier hand; 
Ring out the darkness of the land, 
Ring in the Christ that is to be. 

Alfeed Tennyson. 



SANTA CLAUS' STOCKING. 

'Twas Christmas Eve in a mining town where the great 

Sierras rise, 
And many a miner " strikes it rich," and many a miner 

dies, 
And a woman young and beautiful, who wore a widow's 

cap, 
Sat in a lonely cabin with a bright boy on her lap. 

The boy sat musing deeply till at length he raised his 

head, 
And looking in the widow's eyes, he kissed her as he said, 
" You say that Santa Claus won't come to-night because 

we're poor! 
Why, ma, I think because of that he ought to come the 

more! 

" I mean to hang my stocking up, at any rate, and try 
What he will do. I do not think he'll pass our cabin by." 
And then with simple, childish faith his little prayer he 

said, 
Pinned his wee stocking to the jamb, kissed ma, and went 

to bed. 

The widow mourned in silence, till the boy went fast 

asleep, 
Then suddenly she raised her eyes above and ceased to 

weep. 



SANTA CLAUS' STOCKING. 85 

" Ob, God!" she cried, "I suffer, but I know Thy ways are 

just, 
Give me the total measure of my sweet boy's faith and 

trust!" 

Jack Horn, a stalwart miner, brave and generous, though 

rude, 
Whose ideas of propriety, to say the least, were crude, 
Had meaat that Christmas evening at the widow's hut to 

call, 
But peeping through the window blind had heard and 

witnessed all. 

A lump arose in Jack Horn's throat the while he wiped 
his eyes, 

And muttered, "If I know myself I'll give you a sur- 
prise!" 

Then as he looked around the place to further his design, 

He spied some stockings hanging out and took one from 
the line. 

And then he hurried back to camp, and to a place re- 
paired 

Where miners took their precious dust and fickle fortune 
dared, 

And holding up the stocking to the rough, red-shir ted 
crowd, 

He rapped for their attention, and then he said aloud ? 

"Boys, this is merry Christmas Eve, and at your door I'm 

knockin' 
For slugs— this wee bag that I hold is Santa Claus' 

stockin'. 
Look at it! It's as empty as the foot it fits is cunning, 
I stole it from a clothes-line at the house of Poor Tom 

Dunning. 



86 SANTA CLAUS' STOCKING. 

" You all knew Tom — he was, while here, as white a man 

as any, 
But when death scooped him into camp he didn't leave a 

penny, 
And now his widder, proud as sin, though delicate in 

figger. 
Won't take a red cent from the boys, but works like any 

nigger. 

" Her young kid b'lieves in Santa Claus, and he's hung up 

his stockin', 
And when he finds it empty in the mornin' 'twill be 

shockin', 
And so I now propose to take from every pot a shiner 
And put it in this wee bag as a present from each miner." 

"Done!" was the cry that then arose without a single 

croaker, 
And soon the enthusiastic crowd began a game of poker. 
Pot after pot was rattled off, and no man rushed to cover, 
Till Santa Claus' little bag with wealth was running over. 



Next morn when little Tom jumped up and rushed to get 

his stocking, 
As Jack Horn had predicted, its emptiness was shocking! 
But he still had faith in Santa Claus, and said with visage 

bright, 
"I guess he came this morning, 'cause he hadn't time last 

night. 

" For I heard him on the door-step at least an hour ago, 
And he's left my Christmas presents out there — he has, I 

know!" 
And full of childish confidence, he opened wide the door, 
And shrieked out with amazement at the wealth of things 

he saw. 



SANTA CLAUS' STOCKING. 87 

A sword, a gun, a humming-top, a little rocking-chair, 
A suit of clothes, some brand-new shoes, and other things 

to wear, 
Hams, flour, coffee, sugar, tea, provisions, more, by far, 
Than he had ever seen before, besides a shawl for ma. 



He laughed, he danced, he clapped his hands, and shouted 

in his glee, 
" Oh, ma, see what old Santa Claus has brought for you 

and me! 
I told you he would surely come — he could not pass us 

by!" 
Then suddenly he stopped and asked, "Oh, ma, what 

makes you cry?" 

The widow caught close to her breast her darling, bright- 
eyed boy, 
And as she kissed him tenderly, while flowed her tears of 

joy. 

She said, "Oh, Heavenly Father, I have not prayed in 

vain, 
And come what may hereafter, I will never doubt again!" 
Again she kissed her darling and stood him on the floor, 
And smoothed his curly head, and went to close the open 

door. 
But an object lay before her which the cabin door was 

blocking, 
And written on it legibly was "Santa Claus' stocking." 

'Twas heavy, and to lift it Widow Dunning was scarce 

able, 
But she managed with an effort to convey it to the table, 
When she opened it and started back to find, oh, fortune 

rare! 
A thousand dollars at the least, in slugs and eagles there. 



88 FILIAL PIETY. 

A year passed by, and Jack Horn called each week on Mrs. 

Dunning; 
Somehow he learned to look on her as charming, cute, and 

cuuning, 
And when again the Christmas time brought joy and 

bracing weather, 

Jack Horn coufes>ed his passion, and their lives were 

linked together. 

Francis S. Smith. 



FILIAL PIETY. 



Filial Piety! — It is the primal bond of society — it is 
that iustinctive principle which, panting for its proper 
good, soothes, unbidden, each sense and sensibility of man! 
— it now quivers on every lip! — it now beams from every 
eye! — it is an emanation of that gratitude, which, soften- 
ing under the sense of recollected good, is eager to own 
ttie vast, countless debt it ne'er, alas! can pay, torso many 
long years of unceasing solicitudes, honorable self-denials, 
life-preserving cares! — it is that part of our practice where 
duty drops its awe! — where reverences refines into love! — 
it asks no aid of memory!— it needs not the deductions of 
reason! — pre-existing, paramount over all, whether law or 
human rule, few arguments can increase, and none can 
diminish it! — it is the sacrament of our nature! — not only 
the duty — but the indulgence of a man — it is his first 
great privilege — it is among his last, most endearing de- 
lights! — it causes the bosom to glow with reverberated 
love! — it requires the visitations of nature, and returns the 
blessings that have been received!— it fires emotions into 
vital principle — it renders habituated instinct into a master 
passion — sways all the energies of man — hangs over each 
vicissitude of all that must pass away — aids the melancholy 
Yirtues in their last sad tasks of life, to cheer the languors 



DIKGE FOB A SOLDIER. 89 

of decrepitude and age— explores the thought — elucidates 
the aching eye! — and breathes sweet consolation even in 
the awful moment of dissolution! 

ElCHARD BrINSLEY SHERIDAN. 



DIEGE FOE A SOLDIER 

Close his eyes; his work is done! 

What to him is friend or foeman, 
Else of moon, or set of sun, 

Hand of man, or kiss of woman? 

Lay him low, lay him low, 
In the clover or the snow; 
What cares he? he cannot know; 
Lay him low! 

As man may, he fought his fight, 

Proved his truth by his endeavor; 
Let him sleep in solemn night, 
Sleep forever and forever. 

Lay him low, lay him low, 
In the clover or the snow; 
What cares he? he cannot know; 
Lay him low! 

Fold him in his country's stars, 

Eoll the drum and fire the volley! 
What to him are all our wars, 

What but death-bemocking folly? 
Lay him low. lay him lew, 
In the clover or the snow; 
What cares he? he cannot know; 
Lay him low! 



90 PERSEVERE. 

Leave him to God's watching eye, 

Trust him to the hand that made him, 
Mortal love weeps idly by; 
God alone has power to aid him, 

Lay him low, lay him low, 
In the clover or the snow; 
What cares he? he cannot know, 
Lay him low! 

George H. Boker. 



PERSEVERE. 



Robert the Bruce in the dungeon stood, 

Waiting the hour of doom; 
Behind him, the Palace of Holyrood — 
j Before him, a nameless tomb. 
And the foam on his lip was flecked with red 
As away to the past his memory sped, 
Upcalling the clay of his great renown, 
When he won and he wore the Scottish crown. 
Yet, come there shadow or come there shine, 
The spider is spinning his thread so fine. 

"I have sat on the royal seat of Scone," 

He muttered, below his breath; 
"It's a luckless change — from a kingly throne 
To a felon's shameful death." 
And he clenched his hand in his despair, 
And he struck at the shapes that were gathering there, 
Pacing his cell in impatient rage, 
As a new-caught lion paces his cage. 

But, come there shadow or come there shine, 
The spider is spinning his web so fine. 



PERSEVERE. 91 

"Oh, were it my fate to yield up ray life 

At the bead of rny liegemen all, 
In the foremost shock of the battle-strife 
Breaking my country's thrall, 
I'd welcome death from the foeman's steel, 
Breathing a prayer for old Scotland's weal; 
But here, where no pitying heart is nigh, 
By a loathsome hand it is hard to die." 

Yet, come there shadow or come there shine, 
The spider is spinning his thread so fine. 

"Time and again have I fronted the pride 

Of the tyrant's vast array, 
But only to see, on the crimson tide, 
My hopes swept far away. 
Now a landless chief and a crownless king, 
On the broad, broad earth not a living thing 
To keep me court, save yon insect small, 
Striving to reach from wall to wall." 

For, come there shadow or come there shine, 
The spider is spinning his thread so fine. 

"Work, work as a fool, as I have done, 
To the loss of your time and pain — 
The space is too wide to be bridged across, 
You but waste your strength in vain." 
And Bruce, for the moment, forgot his grief, 
His soul now filled with the same belief — 
That, howsoever the issue went, 
For evil or good was tho omen sent. 

And, come there shadow or come there shine, 
The spider is spinning his thread so fine. 

As a gambler watches his turning card 

On which his all is staked — 
As a mother waits for the hopeful word 



92 KATIE LEE AND WILLIE GKEY. 

For which her soul has ached — 
It was thus Bruce watched, with every sense 

Centered alone in that look intense; 

All rigid he stood, with un uttered breath, 

Now white, now red, but still as death. 

Yet, come there shadow or come there shine, 
The spider is spinning his thread so fine. 

Six several times the creature tried, 
When at the seventh — ''See! see! 
He has spanned it over!" the captive cried, 
"Lo! a bridge of hope to me; 
Thee, God, I thank, for this lesson here 
Has tutored my soul to Persevere!" 
And it served him well, for ere long he wore 
In freedom the Scottish crown once more. 
And, come there shadow or come there shine, 
The spider is spinning his thread so fine. 

John Brougham. 



KATIE LEE AND WILLIE GREY. 

Two brown heads with tossing curls, 
Bed lips shutting over jDearls, 
Bare feet, white and wet with dew, 
Two black eyes, and two eyes blue. 
Little girl and boy were they, 
Katie Lee and Willie Grey. 

They were standing where a brook, 
Bending like a shepherd's crook, 
Flashed its silver, and thick ranks 
Of willow fringed its mossy banks — 
Half in thought and half in play, 
Katie Lee and Willie Grey. 



KATIE LEE AND WILLIE GREY. 93 

They had cheeks like cherries red; 
He was taller — 'most a head. 
She with arms like wreaths of snow, 
Swung a basket to and fro 
As she loitered, half in play, 
Chattering to Willie .Grey. 

" Pretty Katie," Willie said— 
And there came a dash of red 
Through the brownness of his cheek — 
"Boys are strong and girls are weak, 
And I'll carry, so I will, 
Katie's basket up the hill," 

Katie answered, with a laugh, 
"You shall carry only half;" 
And then tossing back her curls, 
"Boys are weak as well as girls." 
Do you think that Katie guessed 
Half the wisdom she possessed? 

Men are only boys grown tall; 
Hearts don't change much after all; 
And when, long years from that day, 
Katie Lee and Willie Grey 
Stood again beside the brook 
Bending like a shepherd's crook — 

Is it strange that Willie said, 
While again a dash of red 
Crossed the brownness of his cheek, 
"I am strong and tou are weak; 
Life is but a slippery steep, 
Hung with shadows cold and deep. 

"Will you trust me, Katie dear- 
Walk beside me without fear? 



94 TAKING MES. JONES* CENSUS. 

May I carry, if I will, 
All your burdens up the hill?" 
And she answered, with a laugh, 
"No, but you may carry half." 

Close beside the little brook, 
Bending like a shepherd's crook, 
Washing with its silver hands 
Late and early at the sands, 
Is a cottage, where to-day 
Katie lives with Willie Grey. 

In a porch she sits, and lo! 
Swings a basket to and fro — 
Vastly different from the one 
That she swung in years agone, 
This is long and deep and wide, 
And has — rockers at the side, 

J. E. PlXLEY. 



TAKING MKS. JONES' CENSUS. 

When the census enumerator knocked on Jones' door, 
it was opened by a fierce-looking woman with red hair. 
When he had explained his errand, she said, savagely: 

" I sha'n't tell you a thing, you impudent vagabond!" 

" But, madam, the Government " 

"It's none of the Government's business who lives 
here!" 

" But the Government, madam, wants the names so that 
it can send to each person a splendid chromo, which " 

"What kind of chromos?" she asked. "Those with a 
blue girl putting green sunflowers around a pink sheep's 
neck, while a yellow cow looks through a mud-colored 
fence?" 



TAKING MRS. JONES' CENSUS. 95 

" Yes," said the -enumerator, "and with a glorious red 
sunset over behind the barn." 

" Well, we have twenty-two of those chromes in the 
house now. Got 'em as prizes at the tea store, and we 
don't want any more. So you can quit!" 

"Very well, madam; then I shall have to get the facts 
as well as I can. I will put you down as having eighteen 
children, nine boys and nine girls, and six of them twins, 
with red hair. How will that do?" asked the enumerator, 
making a memorandum with his pencil. 

"Put down what you please. Only the twins and red 
hair are lies, and if you put them into the census report, 
Mr. Jones will sue you for libel." 

"Ah! Jones is the name, is it? Let me see, I'll put you 
down as a Presbyterian, and Mr. Jones as a Baptist. How 
will that do?" 

"My folks have been Methodists for centuries. As for 
the Joneses, you can class them among the sinners; put 
'em under the head of Total Depravity, even if they are 
Episcopalians." 

"May I ask what is Mr. Jones' occupation?" 

" He is mostly occupied in going to picnics and to horse- 
races just now, spending the money that ought to buy 
me clothes." 

" Has he no regular business?" 

"No; 'tis irregular. He hasn't made a whole boot for a 
month." 

"Shoemaker," said the enumerator to himself. "I am 
getting along. And now, madam, how old are you?" 

"Who told you to ask?" 

" The President. Gave special orders. Said on no ac- 
count was I to quit until I got your exact age." 

"Well, he'll find it out, drat his impudence, when I 
choose to tell him, and that's not yet." 

" Suppose I say sixty-seven," suggested the enumerator, 
thoughtfully. 



96 TAKING MES. JONES' CENSUS. 

"You call me sixty-seven if you dare! I'm not an hour 
over forty-two, and I can prove it out of the family Bible. 
But it's nobody's business but mine how old I am. 
Jones is fifty-two, but nobody would believe it who knew 
him. A child has more sense." 

" The next question is, 'What color are the various mem- 
bers of your family — white, black, mulatto, Chinese, or 
Indian?" 

" That," said Mrs. Jones, "is sheer insolence. We are 
all just as white as you are." 

11 No Chinese?" 

"Certainly not." 

"No Indians?" 

"You daren't ask such a question if I had the kitchen 
poker with me." 

" No colored people about?" 

"Jimmy!" shouted Mrs. Jones; "bring me a kettle of 
hot water!" 

"We will pass that, then," said the enumerator. "Now 
let me know how many of the family are blind, deaf, dumb, 
idiotic, insane, crippled, bed-ridden, paralyzed, feeble- 
minded, one-legged, dyspeptic, suffering from torpid 
livers, or hydrocephalus, or otherwise disabled?" 

"Is that on the paper there?" 

"Yes, ma'am." 

" Well, it's outrageous! But there is nothing the matter 
with any of us, excepting that Jones is a little deaf in the 
right ear, and Tommy squints, and I always have lumbago 
in the fall, when Jones' chills come on. And Lucy has 
warts. Does the paper ask about warts?" 

"I think not. The Government seems to be indifferent 
about the number of warts in the country." 

" I wonder it don't want to know about 'em. I wonder 
it don't want to know how often I give Johnny paregoric 
and sugar for the stomach-ache. That'd be no worse than 
some of the things it does ask. What business is it of 



TAKING MRS. JONES* CENSUS. 97 

the President whether Mr. Jones has one leg or eleven? 
The number of Mr. Jones' legs has nothing to do with the 
prosperity of the couutry, has it? Well, then, it is scan- 
dalous to send you here to ask about 'em." 

"Let ine see," said the enumerator, running over his 
paper with the point of his lead pencil; "how many times 
have you been married? And mention, if you please, why 
it was that your husband, or husbands, expressed a pref- 
erence for a homely woman with warm hair?" 

The enumerator was a brave man, but he was small. 
Mrs. Jones, on the contrary, was large and muscular. 
When she let go of his collar, and he had collected his 
senses, he found himself lyiug in the geranium bed, cov- 
ered with mud, and with his memorandum- book on the 
other side of the fence. 

Mrs. Jones had retreated to the house, and double 
locked the door, while she went to the stable yard to un- 
chain the dog. 

The enumerator picked himself up and emerged from 
the front gate just in time to miss the dog. Then he went 
over to Smiley's, across the way, aud, after obtaining a 
description of the Smiley family, Mrs. Smiley gave him a 
full account of Mrs. Jones' household, with a variety of 
picturesque, but not very flattering, information respecting 
Mrs. Jones' personal peculiarities. 

When the enumerator hands in his description of the 
Joneses, he is going to make it mighty interesting for the 
general reader. Max Adeleb. 



98 THE LOKD OF BURLEIGH. 



THE LOED OF BUELEIGH. 

In her ear he whispers gayly — 

"If my heart by signs can tell, 
Maiden, I have watched thee daily, 

And I think thoulov'st me well." 
She replies, in accents fainter — 

" There is none I love like thee," 
He is but a landscape painter, 

And a village maiden she. 
He to lips that fondly falter, 

Presses his, without reproof; 
Leads her to the village altar, 

And they leave her father's roof. 
"I can make no marriage present; 

Little can I give my wife; 
Love will make our cottage pleasant, 

And I love thee more than life." 

They, by parks and lodges going, 

See the lordly castles stand; 
Summer woods, about them blowing, 

Made a murmur in the land. 
From deep thought himself he rouses, 

Says to her that loves him well — 
"Let us see these handsome houses, 

Where the wealthy nobles dwell." 
So she goes, by him attended, 

Hears him lovingly converse, 
Sees whatever fair and splendid 

Lay betwixt his home and hers; 
Parks with oak and chestnut shady, 

Parks and ordered gardens great; 
Ancient homes of lord and lady, 

Built for pleasure and for state. 



THE LORD OF BURLEIGH. 99 

All he shows her makes hiin dearer; 

Evermore she seems to gaze 
On that cottage, growing nearer, 

Where they twain will spend their days. 
Oh, but she will love him truly; 

He shall have a cheerful home; 
She will order all things duly, 

When beneath his roof they come. 
Thus her heart rejoices greatly, 

Till a gate-way she discerns, 
With armorial bearings stately, 

And beneath the gate she turns — 
Sees a mansion more majestic 

Than all those she saw before; 
Many a gallant gay domestic 

Bows before him at the door. 

And they speak in gentle murmur, 

When they answer to his call, 
While he treads with footsteps firmer, 

Leading on from hall to hall. 
And, while now she wonders blindly, 

Nor the meaning can divine, 
Proudly turns he round, and kindly — 

"All of this is mine and thine." 
Here he lives in state and bounty, 

Lord of Burleigh, fair and free; 
Not a lord in all the county 

Is so great a lord as he. 
All at once the color flushes 

Her sweet face, from brow to chin; 
As it were with shame she blushes, 

And her spirit changed within. 

Then her countenance all over 
Pale again as death did prove; 



100 THE LORD OF BURLEIGH. 

But he clasped her like a lover, 

And he cheered her soul with love. 
So she strove against her weakness, 

Though at times her spirit sank; 
Shaped her heart, with woman's meekness, 

To all duties of her rank. 
And a gentle consort made he, 

And her gentle mind was such, 
That she grew a noble lady, 

And the people loved her much. 

But a trouble weighed upon her, 

And perplexed her night and morn, 
"With the burden of an honor 

Unto which she was not born. 
Faint she grew, and even fainter, 

As she murmured — "Oh, that he 
Were once more that landscape painter, 

Which did win my heart from me!" 
So she drooped and drooped before him, 

Fading slowly from his side; 
Three fair children first she bore him, 

Then, before her time, she died. 

Weeping, weeping, late and early, 

Walking up and pacing down, 
Deeply mourned the Lord of Burleigh, 

Burleigh House, by Stamford town. 
And he came to look upon her, 

And he looked at her and said — 
" Bring the diess and put it on her, 

That she wore when she was wed." 
Then her people, softly treading, 

Bore to earth her body dressed 
In the dress that she was wed in, 

That her spirit might have rest. 

Alfred Tennyson. 



THE PILGKIMS. 101 

THE PILGKIMS. 

Methinks I see it now, that one solitary, adventurous 
vessel, the Mayflower of a forlorn hope, freighted with the 
prospects of a future state, and bound across the unknown, 
sea, I behold it pursuing, with a thousand misgivings, the 
uncertain, the tedious voyage. Suns rise and set, and 
weeks and months pass, and winter surprises them on the 
deep, but brings them not the sight of the wished-for 
shore. I see them now, scantily supplied with provisions, 
crowded almost to suffocation in their ill-stored prison, 
delayed by calms, pursuing a circuitous route; and now 
driven in fury before the raging tempest, on the high and 
giddy wave. The awful voice of the storm howls through 
the rigging; the laboring masts seem straining from their 
base, the dismal sound of the pumps is heard; the ship 
leaps, as it were, madly, from billow to billow; the ocean 
breaks, and settles with ingulfing floods over the floating 
deck, and beats with deadening, shivering weight, against 
the staggered vessel. I see them, ' escaped from those 
perils, pursuing their all but desperate undertaking, and 
landed, at last, after a few months' passage, on the ice-clad 
rocks of Plymouth — weak and weary from the voyage, 
poorly armed, scantily provisioned, without shelter, with- 
out means, surrounded by hostile tribes. 

Shut, now, the volume of history, and tell me, on any 
principle of human probability, what shall be the fate of 
this handful of adventurers? Tell me, man of military 
science, in how many months were they all swept off by 
the thirty savage tribes enumerated within the early limits 
of New England? Tell me, politician, how long did this 
shadow of a colony, on which your conventions and treat- 
ies had not smiled, languish on the distant coast? Stu- 
dent of history, compare for me the baffled projects, the 
deserted settlements, the abandoned adventures, of other 
times, and find the parallel of this! Was it the winter's 



102 THE FIELD OF WATERLOO. 

storm, beating upon the houseless heads of women and 
children? was it hard labor and spare meals? was it dis- 
ease? was it the tomahawk? was it the deep malady of a 
blighted hope, a ruined enterprise, and a broken heart, 
aching, in its last moments, at the recollection of the loved 
and left, beyond the sea? — was it some or all of these 
united, that hurried this forsaken company to their melan- 
choly fate? And is it possible that neither of these causes, 
that not all combined, were able to blast this bud of hope! 
Is it possible that from a beginning so feeble, so frail, so 
worthy, not so much of admiration as of pity, there has 
gone forth a progress so steady, a growth so wonderful, an 
expansion so ample, a reality so important, a promise, yet 
to be fulfilled, so glorious! Edward Everett. 



THE FIELD OF WATEKLOO. 

Stop! for thy tread is an empire's dust; 

And earthquake's spoil is sepulchered below! 
Is the spot marked with no colossal bust? 

Nor column trophied for triumphal show? 

None; but the moral's truth tells simpler so. 
As the ground was before, thus let it be. 

How that red rain hath made the harvest grow! 
And is this all the world has gained by thee, 
Thou first and last of fields, king-making Victory? 

There was a sound of revelry by night, 

And Belgium's capital had gathered then 
Her beauty and her chivalry; and bright 

The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men; 

A thousand hearts beat happily; and when 
Music arose, with its voluptuous swell, 

Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again; 
And all went merry as a marriage-bell. 
But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell ! 



THE FIELD OF WATERLOO. 103 

Did ye not hear it? No; 'twas but the wind, 
Or the car rattling o'er the stony stieet; 

On with the dance! let joy be unconnned! 

No sleep till morn, when youth and pleasure meet 
To chase the glowing hours with flying feet! 

Bnt hark! that heavy sound breaks in once more, 
As if the clouds its echo would repeat; 

And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before. 
Arm! Arm! it is, it is the cannon's opening roar! 

Within a windowed niche of that high hall 

Sat Brunswick's fated chieftain; he did hear 
That sound the first amidst the festival, 

And caught its tone with death's prophetic ear; 

And when they smiled because he deemed it near 
His heart more truly knew that peal too well, 

Which stretched his father on a bloody bier, 
And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell; 
He rushed into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell! 

Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro, 

And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress, 
And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago 

Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness; 

And there was sudden parting, such as press 
The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs 

Which ne'er might be repeated; who could guess 
If ever more should meet those mutual eves, 
Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise! 

And there was mounting in hot haste; the steed, 
The mustering squadron, and the clattering car, 

Went pouring forward with impetuous speed, 
And swiftly forming in the ranks of war; 
And the deep thunder, peal on peal, afar, 

And near, the beat of the alarming drum 



104 the pauper's death-bed. 

Boused up the soldier ere the morning star; 
While thronged the citizens, w ith terror dumb, 
Or whispering, with white lips, "The foe! they come! 
the j come!" 

Last noon beheld them full of lusty life; 

Last eve, in beauty's circle, proudly gay; 
The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife 

The morn, the marshaling in arms — the day, 

Battle's magnificently stern array! 
The thunder clouds close o'er it; which, when rent, 

The earth is covered thick with other clay, 
Which her own clay shall cover, heaped and pent, 
Rider and horse, friend, foe, in one red burial blent. 

Byron. 



THE PAUPER'S DEATH-BED. 

Tread softly — bow the head; 

In reverent silence bow; 
No passing bell doth toll, 
Yet an immortal soul 

Is passing now. 

Stranger! however great, 
With lowly reverence bow; 

There's one in that poor shed, 

One by that paltry bed, 
Greater than thou. 

Beneath that beggar's roof, 
Lo! Death doth keep his state; 

Enter — no crowds attend; 

Enter — no guards defend 
This palace gate. 



THE DYING SOLDIES. 105 

That pavement, damp and cold, 

No smiling courtiers tread; 
One silent woman stands, 
Lifting with meager hands 

A dying head. 

No mingling voices sound — 

Au infant wail alone; 
A sob suppressed — again 
That short, deep gasp, and then 

The parting groan. 

Oh! change!— Oh! wondrous change! 

Burst are the prison bars — 
This moment there, so low, 
So agonized, and now 

Beyond the stars! 

Oh! change — stupendous change! 

There lies the soulless clod! 
The sun eternal breaks — 
The new immortal w r akes — 

Wakes with his God! 

Caroline Bowles Southey. 



THE DYING SOLDIER 

"Chaplain, I am dying, dying; 

Cut a lock from off my hair, 
For my darling mother, chaplain, 

After I am dead, to wear; 
Mind you, 'tis for mother, chaplain, 

She whose early teachings now 
Soothe and comfort the poor soldier, 

With the death-dew on his brow! 



106 THE DYING SOLDIEB. 

"Kneel down, now, beside me, chaplain, 

And return rny thanks to Him 
Who so good a mother gave me, 

Oh, my eyes are growing dim! 
Tell her, chaplain, should you see her, 

All at last with me was well; 
Through the valley of the shadow 

I have gone, with Christ to dwell! 

"Do not weep, I pray you, chaplain; 

Yes, ah! weep for mother dear; 
I'm the only living son, sir, 

Of a widowed mourner here; 
Mother! I am going, going 

To the land where angels dwell; 
I commend vou unto Jesus: 

Mother darling — fare you well!" 

Downward from their thrones of beauty 

Looked the stars upon his face; 
Upward on the wings of duty 

Sped the angel of God's grace. 
Bearing through the heavenly portal, 

To his blessed home above, 
The dead soldier's soul immortal, 

To partake of Christ's sweet love. 



Far away, in humble cottage, 

Sits his mother, sad and lone; 
And her eyes are red with weeping, 

Thinking of her absent son. 
Suddenly Death's pallid presence 

Cast a shadow o'er her brow; 
Smiling a sweet smile of welcome, 

She is with her loved ones now ! 

BlCHABD COE. 



A LOST MOTHEK-IN-IiAW. 107 



A LOST MOTHER-IN-LAW. 

A Pittsburgh paper the other day published an account 
of a corpse, which was shipped to that place on a railroad, 
but, w^hich missed the connections somehow, two or three 
times, and didn't turn up for about a month. It is a very 
odd coincidence that. Dr. Robinson, of our village, had al- 
most a precisely similar experience a month or two ago. 
He received a telegram from New York, from a iDerson 
unknown to him, saying that his mother-in-law was dead, 
and that the body would be sent right on. He waited for 
several days, and as the old lady failed to arrive, he made 
some inquiry about her at the express office. 

The express people stirred around, and after a while as- 
certained that the remains had been sent through to 
Washington, and delivered by some blunder to Secretary 
Tracy, under the impression that the box contained the 
model of a new-fangled gunboat. 

Dr. Robinson instantly telegraphed on to the secretary 
that if he didn't return the body promptly, he would have 
him arrested for embezzling his mother-in-law. The next 
day he received an answer, saying that the box had been 
re-shipped, and stating that if he tried to palm any more 
of his old cadavers off on the national administration, he 
would be seized and shot. 

But still the package didn't turn up, and the doctor 
again put the express people on the scent. They discov- 
ered that it had somehow got off onto the Northern Cen- 
tral Railroad, and was lying in the office at Harrisburgh. 
They ordered it to be sent on. It was coming all right 
on the next train, when the express car was attacked by 
masked robbers, who ran the coffin out, opened it, and 
then left in disgust. Next morning the body was found 
standing against a tree, and the coroner wouldn't let it 



108 A LOST MOTHER-IN-LAW. 

go until he had held an inquest on it, and collected his 
fees. 

But finally it was re-shipped at York, Pa., and it ap- 
peared to be on the way home when a collision occurred, 
and the folks who came to the rescue concluded that this 
must be one of the killed. So another coroner sat on it, 
and then it was buried. The doctor compelled the ex- 
press company to have it disinterred, and it was set in 
motion again. 

It arrived at Wilmington on the Fourth of July, and the 
express messenger was so anxious to get away to view the 
fire-works, that he didn't push the box all the way into 
the car, and while the train was going over a creek, the 
car received a jolt, the box slid out and into the creek, 
and the unconscious old lady sailed down with the tide, 
and never made land until she reached the Delaware Break- 
water, down opposite Cape May. 

The doctor was perfectly wild about it, for nobody could 
tell where the box had got to. The* people at the break- 
water thought it must have fallen overboard from a 
steamer, and they telegraphed pretty nearly all over the 
world about it. At last the news reached the papers, and 
the express company investigated the matter, and had the 
body shipped toward home. Word was sent to the doc- 
tor that she was coming at last upon a certain train, so he 
got the funeral procession ready and marched it down to 
the depot to receive his deceased relative. When the train 
reached the station it went past without stopping, and the 
doctor was furious. 

He telegraphed over to Wilmingtou, and got a promise 
that the box would be sent on the next train in about four 
hours. So the mourners all waited around in the swelter- 
ing heat, and sure enough, after a while, the box arrived. 
It was shot out at the station. They put it in the hearse 
and took it to the cemetery, where it was safely interred. 
Then the doctor felt easy at last, and he went home with a 



A LOST MOTHER-IN-LAW. 109 

rather light heart. When he entered the house he saw a 
woman sitting in the parlor toasting her toes by the grate. 
She turned around as he entered, and to his amazement 
and horror he perceived that it was his mother-in-law. 
His first impulse was to slam the door and run. But he 
summoned up courage euough to say: 

" Great Heaven! what are you doing here? How did 
you ever come to and climb out of that sepulcher?" 

She was inclined to behave ugly at first at receiving such 
a greeting, but when the doctor explained the matter, she 
agreed that it was the most extraordinary thing she ever 
heard of. So the doctor started right out for the ceme- 
tery, and ordered the man to disinter those remains^ In 
about two hours the man called to say that he had dug 
down about forty feet, and, strange to say, couldn't find 
the body. Then the doctor felt cold creep all over him, 
and he began to doubt if the old lady up stairs was real 
flesh and blood after all. But he proceeded to the grave- 
vard to examine the matter for himself, and to his relief he 
found that the fool of a man had dug in the wrong place. 
So they got the body up at last, and took a look at it, and 
the doctor saw at once that there was a mistake. It was 
not his mother-in-law at all. 

While he was wondering what on earth it meant, he 
heard that the Episcopal minister was rushing around try- 
ing to find out something about his dead and strayed 
mother-in-law. His name was Bev. Dr. Bobertson, and 
Dr. Bobinson gave him a look at the body in the box. It 
was the minister's relative. Then the other doctor wanted 
him to shoulder all those coroner's fees and funeral ex- 
penses, which the minister declined to do, on the ground 
that the jrb had been unnecessarily botched, and so the 
case was taken into court, and set down for trial at the 
next term. We are awaiting the result with some anxiety. 
Dr. Bobinson says that if he is going to have other peo- 
ple's dead mothers-in-law shoved ofi'on him by the law of 



110 TUBAL CAIN. 

the land, he intends to emigrate, and reside permanently 
somewhere else. Max Adkler. 



TUBAL CAIN. 



Old Tubal Cain was a man of might 

In the days when the earth was young, 
By the fierce red light of his furnace bright, 

The strokes of his hammer rung; 
And he lifted high his brawny hand 

On the iron glowing clear, 
Till the sparks rushed out in scarlet showers 

As he fashioned the sword and spear. 
And he sang, * 'Hurrah for my handiwork! 

Hurrah for the spear and sword! 
Hurrah for the hand that shall wield them well! 

For he shall be king and lord." 

To Tubal Cain came many a one, 

As he wrought by his roaring fire, 
And each one prayed for a strong steel blade, 

As the crown of his desire; 
And he made them weapons sharp and strong, 

Till they shouted loud in glee, 
And gave him gifts of pearls and gold, 

And spoils of forest free. 
And they sang, "Hurrah for Tubal Cain, 

Who hath given us strength anew! 
Hurrah for the smith! hurrah for the fire! 

And hurrah for the metal true!" 

But a sudden change came o'er his heart 

Ere the setting of the sun, 
And Tubal Cain was filled with pain 

For the evil he had done. 



TUBAL CAIN. Ill 

He saw that men, with rage and hate, 

Made war upon their kind; 
That the land was red with the blood they shed 

In their lust for carnage blind. 
And he said, "Alas, that ever I made, 

Or that skill of mine should plan, 
The spear and the sword, for men whose joy 

Is to slay their fellow-man!" 

And for many a day old Tubal Cain 

Sat brooding o'er his woe; 
And his hand forbore to smite the ore, 

And his furnace smoldered low; 
Bat he rose at last with a cheerful face, 

And a bright, courageous eye, 
And bared his strong right arm for work, 

While the quick flames mounted high; 
And he sang, "Hurrah for my handiwork!' , 

And the red sparks lit the air — 
"Not alone for the blade was the bright steel made" — 

And he fashioned the first plowshare. 

And men, taught wisdom from the past, 

In friendship joined their hands, 
Hung the sword in the hall, the spear on the wall, 

And plowed the willing lands; 
And sang, "Hurrah for Tubal Cain! 

Our stanch good friend is he; 
And, for the plowshare and the plow, 

To him our praise shall be. 
But while oppression lifts its head, 

Or a tyrant would be lord, 
Though we may thank him for the plow, 

We'll not forget the sword." 

Chaeles Mackay. 



112 THE H0TJK OF DEATH. 



THE HOUK OF DEATH, 

Leaves have their time to fall, 
And flowers to wither at the north wind's breath 

And stars to set — but all, 
Thou hast all seasons for thine own, oh Death! 

Day is for mortal care, 
Eve for glad meetings round the joyous hearth, 

Night for the dreams of sleep, the voice of prayer — 
But all for Thee, thou mightiest of the earth. 

• The banquet hath its hour, 
Its feverish hour of mirth, and song, and wine; 

There comes a day for grief's o'erw helming power, 
A time for softer tears — but all are thine. 

Youth and the opening rose 
May look like things too glorious for decay, 

And smile at thee — but thou are not of those 
That wait the ripened bloom to seize their prey. 

Leaves have their time to fall, 
And flowers to wither at the north wind's breath, 

And stars to set — but all, 
Thou hast all seasons for thine own, oh Death! 

We know when moons shall wane, 
When summer-birds from far shall cross the sea, 

When autumn's hue shall tinge the golden grain — 
But who shall teach us when to look for thee? 

Is it when Spring's first gale 
Comes forth to whisper where the violets lie? 
Is it when roses in our paths grow pale? — 
They have one season — all are ours to die! 



THE HOUSEKEEPER'S SOLILOQUY. 113 

Thou art where billows foam, 
Thou art where music melts upon the air; 

Thou art around us in our peaceful home, 
And the world calls us forth — and thou art there. 

Thou art where friend meets friend, 
Beneath the shadow of the elm to rest — 

Thou art where foe meets foe, and trumpets rend 
The skies, and swords beat down the princely crest. 

Leaves have their time to fall, 
And flowers to wither at the north wind's breath, 

Aud stars to set — but all, 
Thou hast all seasons for thine own, oh Death! 

Felicia Hemans. 



THE HOUSEKEEPER'S SOLILOQUY. 

Here's a big washing to be done — 
1 One pair of hands to do it — 
Sheets, shirts and stockings, coats and pants, 
How will I e'er get through it? 

Dinner to get for six or more, 

No loaf left o'er from Sunday; 
And baby cross as he can live — 

He's always so on Monday. 

'Tis time the meat was in the pot, 
The bread was worked for baking, 

The clothes were taken from the boil — 
Oh, dear! the baby's waking! 

Hush, baby dear! there, hush-sh-sL! 
I wish he'd sleep a little, 



114 THE HOUSEKEEPEK'S SOLILOQUY. 

'Till I could run and get some wood, 
To hurry up the kettle. 

Oh, dear! oh, dear! if P comes home, 

And finds things in this pother, 
Hell just begin to tell me all 

About his tidy mother! 

How nice her kitchen used to be, 

Her dinner always ready 
Exactly when the noon-bell rang — 

Hush, hush, dear little Freddy! 

And then will come some hasty words, 

Eight out before I'm thinking — 
They say that hasty words from wives 

Set sober men to drinking. 

Now, is not that a great idea, 

That men should take to sinning, 
Because a weary, half-sick wife, 

Can't always smile so winning? 

When I was young, I used to earn 

My living without trouble, 
Had clothes, and pocket money, too, 

And hours of leisure double. 

I never dreamed of such a fate, 
When I, a-lass! was courted — 
Wife, mother, nurse, seamstress, cook, housekeeper, 
chambermaid, laundress, dairy woman, and scrub gener- 
ally, doing the work of six, 

For the sake of being supported! 

Mrs. F. D. Gaoe. 



THE TRAITOR'S DEATH-BED. 115 



THE TKAITOK'S DEATH-BED. 

Fifty years ago, in a rude garret, near the loneliest sub- 
urbs of the city of London, lay a dying man. He was but 
half dressed, though his legs were concealed in long mili- 
tary boots. An aged minister stood beside the rough 
couch. The form was that of a strong man, grown old 
through care more than age. There was a face that you 
might look upon once, and yet wear it in your memory 
forever. 

Let us bend over the bed, and look upon that face. A 
bold forehead seamed by one deep wrinkle, visible be- 
tween the brows — long locks of dark hair, sprinkled with 
gray; lips firmly set, yet quivering, as though they had a 
life separate from the life of the man; and then, two large 
eyes — vivid, burning, unnatural in their steady glare. Ay, 
there was something terrible in that face — something so 
full of unnatural loneliness — unspeakable despair, that the 
aged minister started back in horror. But look! those 
strong arms are clutching at the vacant air; the death- 
sweat stands in drops on that bold brow — the man is dy- 
ing. Throb — throb — throb — beats the death-watch in the 
shattered wall. "Would you die in the faith of the Chris- 
tian?" faltered the preacher, as he knelt there on the damp 
floor. 

The white lips of the death-stricken man trembled, but 
made no sound. Then, with the strong agony of death 
upon him, he rose into a sitting posture. For the first time 
he spoke. "Christian!" he echoed, in that deep tone which 
thrilled the preacher to the heart; "will that faith give me 
back my honor? Come with me, old man, come with me, 
far over the waters. Ha! we are there! This is my native 
town. Yonder is the church in which I knelt in childhood; 
yonder the green on which I sported when a boy. But an- 



116 THE TRAITOK'S DEATH-BED. 

other flag waves yonder, in place of the flag tliat waved 
when I was a child. 

" And listen, old man, were I to pass along the streets, 
as I passed when but a child, the very babes in their 
cradles would raise their tiny hands, and curse me! The 
graves in yonder church-yard would shrink from my foot- 
steps; and yonder flag would rain a baptism of blood 
upon my head!" 

That was an awful death-bed. The minister had watched 
"the last night" with a hundred convicts in their cells, 
but had never beheld a scene so terrible as this. Sud- 
denly the dying man arose; he tottered along the floor. 
With those white fingers, whose nails were blue with the 
death-chill, he threw open a valise. He drew from thence 
a faded coat of blue, faced with silver, and the wreck of a 
battle-flag. 

"Look ye, priest! this faded coat is spotted with my 
blood!" he cried, as old memories seemed stirring at his 
heart. " This coat I wore, when I first heard the news of 
Lexington; this coat I wore, when I planted the banner of 
the stars on Ticonderoga! that bullet-hole was pierced in 
the fight of Quebec; and now, I am a — let me whisper it in 
your ear!" He hissed that single burning word into the 
minister's ear. "Now, help me, priest! help me to put on 
this coat of blue; for you see" — and a ghastly smile came 
over his face — "there is no one here to wipe the cold drops 
from my brow; no wife, no child. I must meet Death 
alone; but I will meet him, as I have met him in battle, 
without a fear!" 

And, while he stood arraying his limbs in that worm- 
eaten coat of blue and silver, the good minister spoke to 
him of faith in Jesus. Yes, of that great faith, which 
pierces the clouds of human guilt, and rolls them back 
from the face of God. " Faith!" echoed the strange man, 
who stood there, erect, with the death-chill on his brow; 
"Faithl Can it give me back my honor? Look ye, priest! 



THE TEAITOR'S DEATH-BED. 117 

there, over the waves, sits George Washington, telling to 
his comrades the pleasant story of the eight years' war; 
there, in his royal halls, sits George of England, bewail- 
ing, in his idiotic voice, the loss of his colcnies! And here 
am I! — I, who was the first to raise the flag of freedom, 
the first to strike a blow against that king — here am I, dy- 
ing! oh, dying like a dog!" 

The awe-stricken preacher started back from the look of 
the dying man, while throb — throb — throb — beats the 
death-watch, in the shattered wall. "Hush! silence along 
the lines there!" he muttered, in that w T ild, absent tone, 
as though speaking to the dead; ' 'silence along the lines! 
not a word — not a word, on peril of your lives! Hark you. 
Montgomery! we will meet in the center of the town — we 
will meet there in victory, or die! — Hist! silence, my men, 
not a whisper, as we move up those steep rocks! Now on, 
my boys, now oni Men of the wilderness, we will gain 
the town! Now, up with the banner of the stars — up with 
the flag of freedom, though the night is dark, and the 
snow falls! Now! now, one more blow, and Quebec is 
ours!" 

And look! his eye grows glassy. With that word on his 
lips, he stands there — ah! what a hideous picture of de- 
spair; erect, livid, ghastly; there for a moment, and then 
he falls — he is dead! Ah, look at that proud form, thrown 
cold and stiff upon the damp floor. In that glassy eye 
there lingers, even yet, a horrible energy — a sublimity of 
despair. 

Who is this strange man lying there alone, in this rude 
garret; this man, who, in all his crimes, still treasured up 
in that blue uniform, that faded flag? Who is this being 
of horrible remorse — this man, whose memories seem to 
link something with heaven, and more with hell? 

Let us look at that parchment and flag. The aged min- 
ister unrolls that faded flag; it is a blue banner gleaming 
with thirteen stars. He unrolls that parchment; it is a 



118 



THE BRAVE AT HOME. 



colonel's commission in the Continental Army, addressed 
to Benedict Arnold. And there, in that rude hut, while 
the death-watch throbbed like a heart in the shattered wall; 
there, unknown, unwept, in all the bitterness of desola- 
tion, lay the corpse of the patriot and the traitor. 

Geobge Lippard. 



THE BEAVE AT HOME. 

The maid who binds her warrior's sash, 

With smile that well her pain dissembles, 
The while beneath her drooping lash 

One starry tear-drop hangs and trembles. 
Though Heaven alone records the tear, 

And fame shall never know the story, 
Her heart has shed a drop as dear 

As e'er bedewed the field of glory. 

The wife who girds her husband's sword, 

'Mid little ones who weep or wonder, 
And bravely speaks the cheering word, 

What though her heart be rent asunder, 
Doomed nightly in her dreams to hear 

The bolts of death around him rattle, 
Had shed as sacred blood as e'er 

Was poured upon a field of battle! 

The Mother who conceals her grief, 

While to her breast her son she presses, 
Then breathes a few brave words and brief, 

Kissing the patriot brow she blesses, 
With no one but her secret God 

To know the pain that weighs upon her, 
Sheds holy blood as e'er the sod 

Beceived on Freedom's field of honor! 

T. Buchanan Bead. 



THE PSALM OF MAKKIAGE. 119 



PSALM OF MARRIAGE. 

Tell me not in idle jingle, 

"Marriage is an empty dream!" 

For the girl is dead that's single, 
And gir]s are not what they peem. 

Life is real! Life is earnest! 

Single blessedness a fib! 
"Man thou art, to man returnest!" 

Has been spoken of the rib. 

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, 

Is our destined end or way; 
But to act that each to-morrow 

Finds us nearer marriage day. 

Life is long, and youth is fleeting, 

And our hearts, though light and gay. 

Still like pleasant drums are beating 
Wedding marches all the way. 

In the world's broad field of battle, 

In the bivouac of life, 
Be not like dumb driven cattle! 

Be a heroine — a wife! 

Trust no future, howe'er pleasant, 
Let the dead past bury its dead! 

Act — act to the living Present! 
Hearts within and hope ahead! 

Lives of married folks remind us 
We can live our lives as well, 

And, departing, leave behind us, 
Such examples as shall "tell." 



120 THE WATER MTL3J. 

Such examples that another, 

Wasting time in idle sport, 
A forlorn, unmarried bi other, 

Seeing, shall take heart and court. 

Let us, then, be up and doing, 

With a heart on triumph set, 
Still contriving, still pursuing, 

And each one a husband get. 

Phosbe Cart. 



THE WATEE MILL. 

Oh! listen to the water mill, through all the live-long 

dav, 
A3 the clicking of the wheel wears hour by hour away; 
How languidly the autumn wind doth stir the withered 

leaves, 
As on the field the reapers sing, while binding up the 

sheaves, 
A solemn proverb strikes my mind, and as a spell is cast, 
"The mill will never grind with water that is past." 

Soft summer winds revhe no more leaves strewn o'er earth 

and main, 
The sickle never more will reap the yellow garnered 

grain, 
The rippling stream flows ever on, aye tranquil, deep and 

still, 
But never glideth back again to busy water mill, 
The solemn proverb speaks to all, with meaning deep and 

vast, 
" The mill will never grind with water that is past." 

Oh! clasp the proverb to thy soul, dear loving heart and 
true, 



THE WATEK MILL. 121 

For golden years are fleeting by, and youth is passing 

too, 
Ah! learn to make the most of life, nor lose one hap£>y 

day, 
For time will ne'er return sweet joys, neglected, thrown 

away, 
Nor leave one tender word unsaid — true love alone will 

last — 
"The mill will never grind with water that is past." 

Oh! the wasted hours of life, that have swiftly drifted by, 
Alas! the good we might have done, all gone without a 

sigh, 
Love that we might once have saved by a single kindly 

word, 
Thoughts conceived but ne'er expressed, perishing, un- 
penned, unheard — 
Oh! take the lesson to thy soul, forever clasp it fast — 
"The mill will never grind with water that is past." 

Work on while yet the sun doth shine, thou man of 

strength and will, 
The streamlet ne'er doth useless glide by clicking water 

mill, 
Nor wait until to-morrow's light beams brightly on the 

way, 
For all that thou canst call thine own lies in the phrase, 

to-day — 
Possessions, power and blooming health, must all be lost 

at last — 
" The mill will never grind with water that is past." 

Oh! love thy God and fellow man, thyself considered 

last, 
For come it will when thou must scan dark errors of the 

past, 



122 THE OLD ACTOK'S STOKY. 

Soon will this fight of life be o'er, and earth recede from 

view, 
And heaven in all its glory shine, where all is pure and 

true, 
Ah ! then thou'lt see more clearly still, the proverb deep 

and vast, 
" The mill will never grind with water that is past." 

D. C. McCallum. 



THE OLD ACTOE'S STOEY. 

Mine is a wild, strange story— the strangest you ever 

heard; 
There are many who won't believe it, but it's gospel, every 

word; 
It's the biggest drama of any in a long, adventurous life; 
The scene was a ship, and the actors — were myself and my 

new-wed wife. 

You musn't mind if I ramble, and lose the thread now and 

then; 
I'm old, you know, and I wander — it's a way with old 

women and men, 
For their lives lie all behind them, and their thoughts go 

far away, 
And are tempted afield, like children lost on a summer 

day. 

The years must be five-and-twenty that have passed since 

that awful night, 
But I see it again this evening, I can never shut out the 

sight. 
We were only a few weeks married, I and the wife, you 

know, 
When we had an offer for Melbourne, and made up our 

minds to go. 



THE OLD ACTOR'S STORY. 123 

We'd acted together in England, traveling up and down 
With a strolling band of players, going from town to 

town; 
We played the lovers together — we were leading lady and 

gent— 
And at last we played in earnest, and straight to the church 

we went. 

The parson gave us his blessing, and I gave Nellie the 

ring, 
And swore that I'd love and cherish, and endow her with 

everything. 
How we smiled at that part of the service when I said, "I 

thee endow!" 
But as to the "love and cherish," I meant to keep that 

vow. 

We were only a couple of strollers; we had coin when the 

show was good, 
When it wasn't we went without it, and we did the best we 

could. 
We were happy, and loved each other, and laughed at the 

shifts we made — 
Where love makes plenty of sunshine, there poverty casts 
no shade. 

Well, at last we got to London, and did pretty well for a 

bit; 
Then the business dropped to nothing, and the manager 

took a flit — 
Stepped off one Sunday morning, forgetting the treasury 

call; 
But our luck was in, and we managed right on our feet to 

fall. 

We got an offer for Melbourne — got it that very week. 



124 THE ou> actor's story. 

Those were the days when thousands went over to for- 
tune seek. 

The days of the great gold fever, and a manager thought 
the spot 

Good for a "spec," .and took us as actors among his lot. 

We hadn't a friend in England — we'd only ourselves to 

please — 
And we jumped at the chance of trying our fortune across 

the seas. 
We went on a sailing vessel, and the journey was long and 

rough; 
We hadn't been out a fortnight before we had had enough. 

But use is a second nature, and we'd gob not to mind a 

storm, 
When misery came upon us- came in a hideous form. 
My poor little wife fell ailing, grew worse, and at last so 

bad 
That the doctor said she was dying — I thought 'twould 

have sent me mad — 

Dying where leagues of billows seemed to shriek for their 

prey, 
And the nearest land was hundreds — ay, thousands — of 

miles away. 
She raved one night in a fever, and the next lay still as 

death, 
So still I'd to bend and listen for the faintest sign of 

breath. 

She seemed in a sleep, and sleeping, with a smile on her 

thin, wan face, 
She passed away one morning, while I prayed to the 

throne of grace. 
I knelt in the little cabin, and prayer after prayer I said, 



THE OLD ACTOR* S STORY. 125 

Till the surgeon came and told me it was useless — my wife 
was dead! 

Dead! I wouldn't believe it. They forced me away that 

night, 
For I raved in my wild despairing, the shock sent me mad 

outright. 
I was shut in the farthest cabin, and I beat my head on 

the side, 
And all day long in my madness, "They've murdered her!" 

I cried. 

They locked me away from my fellows — put me in cruel 

chains, 
It seems I had seized a weapon to beat out the surgeon's 

brains. 
I cried in my wild, mad fury, that he was a devil sent 
To gloat o'er the frenzied anguish with which my heart 

was rent. 

I spent that night with the irons heavy upon my wrists, 
And my wife lay dead quite near me. I beat with my 

fettered fists. 
Beat at my prison panels, and then — O God! — and then 
I heard the shrieks of women, aud the tramp of hurrying 

men. 

I heard the cry, "Ship a-fire!" caught up by a hundred 

throats, 
And over the roar the captain shouting to lower the boats; 
Then cry upon cry, and curses, and the crackle of burning 

wood, 
And the place grew hot as a furnace, I could feel it where 

I stood. 

I beat at the door and shouted, but never a sound came 
back, 



126 THE OLD ACTOB'S STOEY. 

And the timbers above me started, till right through a 
yawning crack 

I could see the flames shoot upward, seizing on mast and 
sail, 

Fanned in their burning fury by the breath of the howl- 
ing gale. ' 

I dashed at the door in fury, shrieking, "I will not die! 
Die in this burning prison!" — but I caught no answering 

cry. 
Then, suddenly, right upon me, the flames crept up with 

a roar, 
And their fiery tongues shot forward, cracking my prison 

door, 

I was free — with the heavy iron door dragging me down to 

death; 
I fought my way to the cabin, choked with the burning 

breath 
Of the flames that danced around me like man-mocking 

fiends at play. 
And then — O God! I can see it, and shall to my dying 

day. 

There lay my Nell as they'd left her, dead in her berth 
that night; 

The flames flung a smile on her features — a horrible, lurid 
light. 

God knows how I reached and touched her, but found my- 
self by her side; 

I thought she was living a moment, I forgot that my Nell 
had died. 

In the shock of those awful seconds reason came back to 

my brain; 
I heard a sound as of breathing, and then a low cry of 

pain; 



THE OLD ACTOR'S STORY. ■ 127 

Ob, was there mercy in heaven? Was there a God in the 

skies? 
The dead woman's lips were moving, the dead woman 

opened her eyes. 

I cursed like a madman raving — I cried to her, "Nell! my 

Nell!" 
They had left us alone and helpless, alone in that burning 

hell; 
They had left us alone to perish — forgotten me living — 

and she 
Had been left for the fire to bear her to heaven, instead of 

the sea. 

I clutched at her, roused her shrieking, the stupor was on 

her still; 
I seized her in spite of my fetters — fear gave a giant's will. 
God knows how I did it, but blindly I fought through the 

flames and the wreck 
Up — up to the air, and brought her safe to the untouched 

deck. 

We'd a moment of life together — a moment of life, the 

time 
For one last word to each other — 'twas a moment supreme, 

sublime. 
From the trance we'd for death mistaken, the heat had 

bi ought her to life, 
And I was fettered and helpless, so we lay there, husband 

and wife! 

It was but a moment, but ages seemed to have passed 

away, 
When a shout came over the water, and I looked, and lo, 

there lay, 
Right away from the vessel, a boat that was standing by; 



128 THE CANE-BOTTOMED CHAIR. 

They had seen our forms on the vessel, as the flames lit 
up the sky. 

I shouted a prayer to Heaven, then called to my wife, and 

she 
Tore with new strength at my fetters — God helped her, 

and I was free; 
Then over the burning bulwarks we leaped for one chance 

of life. 
Did they save us? Well, here I am, sir, and yonder's my 

dear old wife. 

We were out in the boat till daylight, when a great ship 

passing by 
Took us on board, and at Melbourne landed us by and by. 
We've played many parts in dramas since we went on that 

famous trip, 
But ne'er such a scene together as we had on the burning 

ship! 

George E. Sims. 



THE CANE-BOTTOMED CHAIE. 

In tattered old slippers that toast at the bars, 
And a ragged old jacket perfumed with cigars, 
Away from the world and its toils and its cares, 
I've a snug little kingdom up four pair of stairs. 

To mount to this realm is a toil, to be sure, 

But the fire there is bright and the air rather pure; 

And the view I behold on a sunshiny day 

Is grand through the chimney-pots over the way. 

This snug little chamber is cramm'd in all nooks 
With worthless old knickknacks and silly old books, 



THE CANE- BOTTOMED CHAIR. 129 

And foolish old odds and foolish old ends, 
Crack'd bargains from brokers, cheap keepsakes from 
friends. 

Old armor, prints, pictures, pipes, china (all crack'd), 

Old rickety* tables, and chairs broken-backed; 

A twopenny treasury, wondrous to see; 

What matter? 'tis pleasant to you, friend, and me. 

No better divan need the sultan require 
Than the creaking old sofa that basks by the fire; 
And 'tis wonderful, surely, what music you get 
From the rickety, ramshackle, wheezy spinet. 

That praying-rug came from a Turcoman's camp; 
By Tiber once twinkled that brazen old lamp; 
A Mameluke fierce yonder dagger has drawn; 
'Tis a murderous knife to toast muffins upon. 

Long, long through the hours, and the night, and the 

chimes, 
Here we talk of old books, and old friends, and old times; 
As we sit in a fog made of rich Latakie 
This chamber is pleasant to you, friend, and me. 

But of all the cheap treasures that garnish my nest, 
There's one that I love and cherish the best; 
For the fiuest of couches that's padded with hair 
1 never would change thee, my cane- bottomed chair. 

'Tis a bandy-legg'd. high-shoulder'd, worm-eaten seat, 
With a creaking old back, and twisted old feet; 
But since the fair morning when Fanny sat there, 
I bless thee and love thee, old cane-bottomed chair. 

If chairs have but feeling, in holding such charms, 

A thrill must have passed through your withered old arms! 

I looked, and I longed, and I wished in despair; 

I wished myself turned to a cane-bottomed chair. 



130 THE CLOWN'S BABY. 

It was but a moment she sat in this place, 
She'd a scarf on her neck, and a smile on her face! 
A smile on her face, and a rose in her hair, 
And she sat there, and bloomed in my cane -bottomed 
chair. 

And so I have valued my chair ever since, 

Like the shrine of a saint, or the throne of a prince; 

Saint Fanny, my patroness sweet I declare, 

The queen of my heart and my cane-bottomed chair. 

When the candles burn low, and the company's gone, 
In the silence of night as I sit here alone — 
I sit here alone, but we yet are a pair — 
My Fanny I see in my cane-bottomed chair. 

She comes from the past and revisits my room; 
She looks as she then did, all beauty and bloom; 
So smiling and tender, so fresh and so fair, 
And yonder she sits in my cane-bottomed chair. 

Wm. M. Thackeray. 



THE CLOWN'S BABY. 

It was on a western frontier; 
The miners, rugged and brown, 

Were gathered around the posters; 
The circus had come to town! 

The great tent shone in the darkness 
Like a wonderful palace of light, 

And rough men crowded the entrance- 
Shows didn't come every night! 

Not a woman's face among them; 

Many a face that was bad, 
And some that were only vacant, 

And some that were very sad. 



THE CLOWN'S BABY. 13i 

And behind a canvas curtain, 

In a corner of the place, 
The clown, with chalk and vermilion, 

Was "making up" his face. 

A weary -looking woman, 

With a smile that still was sweet, 
Sewed on a little garment, 

With a cradle at her feet. 
Pantaloon stood ready and waiting; 

It was time for the going on, 
But the clown in vain searched wildly; 

The "property-baby" was gone! 

He murmured, impatiently hunting, 

" It's strange, I cannot find — 
There! I've looked in every corner; 

It must have been left behind!" 
The miners were stamping and shouting, 

They were not patient men. 
The clown bends over the cradle — 

" I must take you, little Ben!" 

The mother started and shivered, 

But trouble and want were near; 
She lifted her baby gently; 

"You'll be very careful, dear?" 
"Careful? You foolish darling"— 

How tenderly it was said! 
What a smile shone through the chalk and paint — 

"I love each hair of his head!" 

The noise rose into an uproar, 

Misrule for a time was king; 
The clown, with a foolish chuckle, 

Bolted into the ring. 



132 the clown's baby. 

But as, with a squeak and flourish, 

The fiddles closed their tune, 
"You'll hold him as if he was made of glass?" 

Said the clown to Pantaloon. 

The jovial fellow nodded; 

" I've a couple myself," he said, 
"I know how to handle 'em, bless you! 

Old fellow, go ahead!" 
The fun grew fast and furious, 

And not one of all the crowd 
Had guessed that the baby was alive, 

When he suddenly laughed aloud. 

Oh, that baby -laugh! It was echoed 

From the benches with a ring, 
And the roughest customer there sprang up 

With, "Boys, it's the real thing!" 
The ring was jammed in a minute, 

Not a man that did not strive 
For "a shot at holding the baby," 

The baby that was •'alive!" 

He was thronged by kneeling suitors, 

In the midst of the dusty ring, 
And he held his court right royally — 

The fair little baby king — ■ 
Till one of the shouting courtiers, 

A man with a bold, hard face, 
The talk, for miles, of the country, 

And the terror of the place, 

Kaised the little king to his shoulder, 
And chuckled, "Look at that!" 

As the chubby fingers clutched his hair, 
Then, "Boys, hand round the hat!" 



SOME TIME. 133 

There never was such a hatful 

Of silver, and gold, and notes; 
People are not always penniless 

Because they don't wear coats! 

And then, "Three cheers for the baby! ?: 

I tell you, thoso cheers were meant, 
And the way in which they were given 

Was enough to raise the tent. 
And then there w T as sudden silence, 

And a gruff old miner said, 
"Come, boys, enough of this rumpus! 

It's time it was put to bed." 

So, looking a little sheepish, 

But with faces strangely bright, 
The audience, somewhat lingeringly, 

Elocked out into the night. 
And the bold-faced leader chuckled — 

"He wasn't a bit afraid! 
He's as game as he is good-looking; 

Boys, that was a show that paid!" 

Makgaret Vandegrxet. 



SOME TIME. 



Last night, my darling, as you slept, 

I thought I heard you sigh, 
And to your little crib I crept 

And watched a space thereby; 
Then, bending down, I kissed your brow- 

For, oh, I love you so — 
You are too young to know it now, 

But some time you shall know. 

Some time, when, in a darkened place 
Where others come to weep, 



134 A FBEE SEAT. 

Your eyes shall see a weary face 

Calm in eternal sleep. 
The speechless lips, the wrinkled brow, 

The patient smile may show — 
You are too young to know it now, 

Bat some time you shall know. 

Look backward, then, into the years, 

And see me here to-night — 
See, oh, my darling! how my tears 

Are falling as I write; 
And feel once more upon your brow 

The kiss of long ago — 1 
You are too young to know it now, 

But some time you shall know. 

Eugene Field. 



A FBEE SEAT. 



He was old and poor and a stranger 

In the great metropolis, 
As he bent his steps thitherward 

To a stately edifice; 
Outside he inquires, "What church is this? 5 ' 

" Church of Christ," he hears them say; 
"Ah! just the place I am looking for; 

I trust he is in here to-day." 

He passed through the spacious columned door 

And up the carpeted aisle, 
And as he passed, on many a face 

He saw surprise and a smile. 
From pew to pew, up one entire side, 

Then across the broad front space; 
From pew to pew, down the other side 

He walked with the same slow pace. 



A FREE SEAT. 185 

Not a friendly voice had bid him sit 

To list to the gospel truth, 
Not a sign of deference had been paid 

To the aged one by youth. 
No door was opened by generous hand, 

The pews were paid for — rented, 
And he was a stranger, old and poor, 

Not a heart to him relented. 

And as he paused outside a moment to think, 

Then passed into the street, 
Up to his shoulder he lifted a stone 

That lay in the dust at his feet. 
And bore it up the broad, grand aisle, 

In front of the ranks of pews, 
Choosing a place to see and hear, 

He made a seat for his use. 

Calmly sitting upon the huge stone, 

Folding his hands on his knees, 
Slowly, reviewing the worshipers, 

A great confusion he sees. 
Many a cheek crimsoned with shame, 

Some whisper together sore, 
And wished they had been more courteous 

To a stranger, old and poor. 

As if by magic some fifty doors 

Opened simultaneously, 
And as many seats and books and hands 

Are proffered hastily; 
Changing his stone for a crimsoned pew 

And wiping a tear away, 
He thinks it was a mistake, after all, 

And that Christ came late that day. 



136 ST. IiEON's TOAST. 

The preacher's discourse was eloquent, 

The organ in finest tone, 
But the most impressive sermon heard 

Was preached by an humble stone. 
'Twas a lesson of lowliness and worth 

That lodged in many a heart, 
And that church preserves that sacred sfcone, 

That the truth may not depart. 

Anonymous. 



ST. LEON'S TOAST. 

The feast is o'er! Now brimming wine 
In lordly cup is seen to shine 

Before each eager guest ; 
And silence fills the crowded hall, 
As deep as when the herald's call 

Thrills in the loyal breast. 

Then up arose the noble host, 

Who smiling cried, "A toast! a toast! 

To all our ladies fair! 
Here, before all, I pledge the name 
Of Staunton's proud and beauteous dame- 

The Lady Gundamere!" 

Quick to his feet each gallant sprang, 
And joyous was the shout that rang, 

As Stanley gave the word; 
And every cup was raised on high, 
Nor ceased the loud and gladsome cry, 

Till Stanley's voice was heard. 

"Enough, enough," he smiling said, 
And lowly bent his haughty head; 



st. leon's toast. 137 

* k That all may have their due, 
Now each in turn must play his part, 
And pledge the lady of his heart, 

Like gallant knight and true!" 

Then one by one each guest stood up, 
And drained in turn the brimming cup, 

And named the loved one's name; 
And each, as hand on high he raised, 
His lady's grace and beauty praised, 

Her constancy and fame. 

'Tis now St. Leon's turn to rise; 

On him are fixed those countless eyes— 

A gallant knight is he; 
Envied by some, admired by all, 
Far-famed in lady's bower and hall — 

The flower of chivalry. 

St. Leon raised his kindling eye, 
And held the sparkling cup on high; 

6 'I drink to one," he said, 
"Whose image never m;*y depart, 
Deep graven on this grateful heart, 

Till memory be dead. 

"To one whose love for me shall last, 
When lighter passions long have past, 

So holy 'tis and true; 
To one whose love hath longer dwelt, 
More deeply fixed, more keenly felt, 

Than any pledged by you." 

Each guest upstarted at the word, 
And laid a hand upon his sword, 
With fury-flashing eye; 



138 



THE JINEES. 

And Stanley said, "We crave the name, 
Proud knight, of this most peerless dame, 
Whose fame you count so high." 

St. Leon paused, as if he would 

Not breathe her name in careless mood 

Thus lightly to another; 
Then bent his noble head, as though 
To give that word the reverence due, 

And gently said, "My mother!" 

Walteb Scott. 



THE JINERS. 



She was about forty-five years old, well dressed, had 
black hair, rather thin and tinged with gray, and eyes in 
which gleamed the fires of determination not easily balked. 
She walked into the mayor's office and requested a pri- 
vate interview, and having obtained it, and satisfied her- 
self that the law students were not listening at the key- 
hole, said slowly, solemnly, and impressively: 

"I want a divorce." 

"What for? I supposed you had one of the best of 
husbands," said the mayor. 

"I s'pose that's what everybody thinks; but if they knew 
what I've suffered in ten years, they'd wonder I hadn't 
scalded him long ago. I ought to, but for the sake of the 
young ones I've borne it, and said nothing. I've told him, 
though, what he might depend on, and now the time's 
come; I won't stand it, young ones or no young ones. I'll 
have a divorce, and if the neighbors want to blab them- 
selves hoarse about it they can, for I won't stand it an- 
other day." 

"But what's the matter? Doesn't your husband pro- 



THE JTNERS. 139 

vide for you? Doesn't he treat you kindly?" pursued the 
mayor. 

" We get victuals enough, and I don't know but he's as 
true and kind as men in general, and he's never knocked 
any of us down, I wish he had; then I'd get him into 
jail, and know where he was of nights," retorted the 
woman. 

"Then what is your complaint against him?" 

"Well, if you must know, he's one of them plaguey 
jiners." 

"A what?" 

"A jiner — one of them pesky fools that's always jining 
something. There can't nothing come along that's dark 
and sly and hidden, but he jines it. If anybody should 
get up a society to burn his house down, he'd jine it just 
as soon as he could get in; and if he had to pay for it he'd 
go all the suddener. We hadn't been married more'n two 
months before he jined the Know Xothin's. We lived on 
a farm then, and every Saturday night he'd come tearing 
in before supper, grab a fistful of nut cakes, and go off 
gnawing them, and that's the last I'd see of him till morn- 
ing. And every other night he'd roll and tumble in his 
bed, and holler in his sleep, ' Put none but Americans on 
guard — George Washington;' and rainy days he would go 
out in the corn-barn, and jab at a picture of King George 
with an old bagnet that was there. I ought to put my 
foot down then, but he fooled me so with his lies that I let 
# him go and encouraged him in it. 

"Then he jined the Masons. P'raps you know what 
them be, but I don't, 'cept they think they are of the same 
kind of critters that built Solomon's temple; and of all the 
nonsense and gab about worshipful master, and square 
and compasses, and sich like that we had in the house for 
the next six months, you never see the beat. And he's 
never outgrowed it nuther. What do you think of a man, 
squire, that'll dress himself in a white apron, about big 



140 THE JINERS. 

enough for a monkey's bib, and go marching up and down 
and making motions, and talking foolish Hugo at the pic- 
ture of George Washington, in a green jacket and an apron 
covered over with eyes and columns and other queer 
pictures! Ain't he aloouytick? Well, that's my Sam, and 
I've stood it as long as I am goin' to. 

" The next lunge the old fool made was into the Odd 
Fellows. I made it warm for him when he came home 
and told me he'd jined them, but he kinder pacified me by 
telling me they had a sort of branch show that took in 
women, and he'd get me iu as soon as he found how to do 
it. Well, one night he come home and said I'd been 
proposed, and somebody had blackballed me. Did it 
himself, of course. Didn't want me around knowing 
about his goings on. Of course he didn't, and I told him 
so. 

" Then he jined the Sons of Malter. Didn't say noth- 
ing to me about it, but sneaked off one night, pretendin' 
he'd go to sit up with a sick Odd Fellow, and I never 
found it out, only he come home looking like a man who 
had been through a threshing machine, and I wouldn't do 
a thing for him until he owned up. And so it's gone from 
bad to wus, jiuin' this and that and t'other, till he's wor- 
ship minister of the Masons, and goodness of hope of the 
Odd Fellows, and sword swallower of the Finnegans, and 
virgin cerus of the Grange, and grand mogul of the Sons 
of Indolence, and two-edged tomahawk of the United 
Order of Bed Meu, and tale bearer of the Merciful Mani- 
kins, and skipper of the Guild Caratrine Columbus, and 
grand oriental bouncer of the Royal Arcaners, and big 
wizard of the Arabian Nights, and pledge passer of the 
Reform Club, and chief bugler of the Irish Mechanics, 
and purse-keeper of the Order of Canadian Conscience, 
and double-barreled dictator of the Knights of the Brass 
Circles, and standard-bearer of the Royal Archangels, and 
sublime porte of the Onion League, and chief butler of 



THE JINERS. 141 

the Celestial Cherubs, and puissant potentate of the Petri- 
fied Polly wogs, and goodness only knows what else. I've 
borne it and borne it, hopin' he'd get 'em all jined after a 
while, but 'tain't no use, and when he'd got into a new 
one, and been made grand guide of the Nights of Horror, 
I told him I'd quit, and I will." 

Here the mayor interrupted, saying: 

" Well, your husband is pretty well initiated, that's a 
fact; but the court will hardly call that a good cause for 
divorce. The most of the societies you mention are com- 
posed of honorable men with excellent reputations. Many 
of them, though called lodges, are relief associations and 
mutual insurance companies, which, if your husband 
should die, would take care of you, and would not see you 
suffer if you were sick." 

"See me suffer when I'm sick! Take care of me when 
he's dead! Well, I guess not; I can take care of myself 
when he's dead; and if I can't I can get another! There's 
plenty of 'em! And they needn't bother themselves when 
I am sick either. If I want to be sick and suffer, it's none 
of their business, especially after all the suffering I've had 
when I ain't sick, because of their carryin's on. And 
you needn't try to make me believe it's all right, either. 
I know w r hat it is to live with a man that jines so many 
lodges that he don't never lodge at home." 

" Oh, that's harmless amusement," quietly remarked the 
mayor; "and if all that you say about your husband is 
really as you affirm, it affords strong proof that he must be 
a man endowed with an unusual amount of earnestness of 
purpose, as well as a large degree of popularity." 

She looked him square in the eyes and said: 

"I believe you are a jiner yourself." 

He admitted that he was to a certain extent, and she 
arose and said: 

" I would not have thought it. A man like you, chair- 
man of a Sabbath-school — it's enough to make a woman 



142 THE CHARITY DINNER. 

take pizen! But I don't want anything of you. I want a 
lawyer that don't belong to nobody or nothin'." And she 
bolted out of the office to hunt up a man that wasn't a 
jiner. Anonymous. 



THE CHAEITY DINNER 

Time: Half-past six o'clock. Place: The London Tav- 
ern. Occasion: Fifteenth Annual Festival of the Society 
for the Distribution of Blankets and Top-Boots among the 
Natives of the Cannibal Islands. 

On entering the room, we find more than two hundred 
noblemen and gentlemen already assembled; and the num- 
ber is increasing every minute. The preparations are now 
complete, and we are in readiness to receive the chairman. 
After a short pause, a little door at the end of the room 
opens, and the great man appears, attended by an admir- 
ing circle of stewards and toadies, carrying white wands 
like a parcel of charity schoolboys bent on beating the 
bounds. He advances smilingly to his post at the princi- 
pal table, amid deafening and long-continued cheers. 

The dinner now makes its appearance, and we yield up 
ourselves to the enjoyments of eating and drinking. These 
important duties finished, and grace having been beauti- 
fully sung by the vocalists, the real business of the even- 
ing commences. The usual loyal toasts having been given, 
the noble chairman rises, and, after passing his fingers 
through his hair, he places his thumbs in the armholes of 
his waistcoat, gives a short preparatory cough, accom- 
panied by a vacant stare around the room, and commences 
as follows: 

"My Lords and Gentlemen: — It is with feelings of 
mingled pleasure and regret that I appear before you this 



THE CHAEITY DINNER. 143 

evening; of pleasure, to find that this excellent and world- 
wide-known society is in so promising a condition; and of 
regret that you have not chosen a worthier chairman, in 
fact, one who is more capable than myself of dealing with 
a subject of such vital importance as this. (Loud cheers.) 
But, although I may be unworthy'of the honor, I am proud 
to state that I have been a subscriber to this society from 
its commencement; feeling sure that nothing can tend 
more to the advancement of civilization, social reform, fire- 
side comfort, and domestic economy among the Cannibals, 
than the diffusion of blankets and top-boots. (Tremend- 
ous cheering, which lasts for several minutes.) Here, in 
this England of ours, which is an island surrounded by 
water, as I suppose you all know — or, as our great poet so 
truthfully and beautifully expresses the same fact, 'Eng- 
land bound in by the triumphant sea' — what, down the 
long vista of years, have conduced more to our successes 
in arms, and arts, and song, than blankets? Indeed, I 
never gaze upon a blanket without my thoughts reverting 
fondly to the days of my early childhood. Where should 
we all have been now but for those warm and fleecy cov- 
erings? My Lords and Gentlemen! Our first and tender 
memories are all associated with blankets; blankets when 
in our nurses' arms, blankets in our cradles, blankets 
in our cribs, blankets to our French bedsteads in our 
school-days, and blankets to our marical four-posters now. 
Therefore, I say, it becomes our bounden duty as men — 
and, with feelings of pride, I add, as Englishmen — to ini- 
tiate the untutored savage, the wild and somewhat uncul- 
tivated denizen of the prairie into the comfort and warmth 
of blankets; and to supply him, as far as practicable, with 
those reasonable, seasonable, luxurious, and useful appen- 
dages. At such a moment as this, the lines of another 
poet strike familiarly upon the ear. Let me see, they are 
something like this — ah — ah 



144 THE CHAEITY DINNEE. 

"Blankets have charms to soothe the savage breast, 
"And to — to do — a ■ 

I forget the rest. (Loud cheers.) Do we grudge onr 
money for such a purpose? I answer fearlessly No! 
Could we spend it better at home? I reply most emphati- 
cally, No! True, it may be said that there are thousands 
of our own people who at this moment are wandering 
about the streets of this great metropolis without food to 
eat or rags to cover them. But what have we to do with 
them? Our thoughts, our feelings, and oar sympathies 
are all wafted on the wings of charity to the dear and in- 
teresting Cannibals in the far-off islands of the great Pacific 
Ocean. (Hear, hear.) Besides, have not our own poor 
the work- houses to go to; the luxurious straw of the casual 
wards to repose upon, if they please; mutton broth to 
bathe in, and the ever toothsome, although somewhat scanty 
allowance of Hoke' provided for them? If people choose to 
be poor, is it our business? And let it ever be remem- 
bered that our own people are not savages and man-eaters; 
and, therefore, our philanthropy would be wasted upon 
them. (Overwhelming applause.) To return to our sub- 
ject. Perhaps some person or persons here may wonder 
why we should not send out side-springs and bluchers, as 
well as top-boots. To those I will say, that top-boots 
alone answer the object desired — namely, not only to keep 
the feet dry, but the legs warm, and thus to combine the 
double uses of shoes and stockings. Is it not an instance 
of the remarkable foresight of this society, that it pur- 
posely abstains from sending out any other than top-boots? 
To show the gratitude of the Cannibals for the benefits 
conferred upon them, I will just mention that, within the 
last few weeks, his illustrious Majesty, Hokey Pokey Wan- 
key Fum the First — surnamed by his loving subjects 'The 
Magnificent, ' from the fact of his wearing, on Sundays, a 
shirt-collar and an eya-glass as full court costume — has 
forwarded the president oi the society a very handsome 



THE CHARITY DINNER. 145 

present, consisting of two live alligators, a boa-constrictor, 
and three pots of preserved Indian, to be eaten with toast; 
and I a in told by competent judges, that it is quite equal 
to Russian caviare. 

"My Lords and Gentlemen* — Twill not trespass on your 
patience by making any further remarks; knowing how 
incompetent 1 am — no, no! I don't mean that — knowing 
how incompetent you ail are — no! I don't mean that either 
— but you all know what I mean. Like the ancient 
Roman lawgiver, I am in a peculiar position; for the fact 
is, I cannot sit down — I mean to say, that I cannot sit 
down without saying that, if there ever was an institu- 
tion, it is this institution; and, therefore, I beg to pro- 
pose, 'Prosperity to the Society for the Distribution of 
Blankets and Top-Boots among the Natives of the Canni- 
bal Islands.' " 

The toast having been cordially responded to, his lord- 
ship calls upon Mr. Duffer, the secretary, to read the re- 
port. Whereupon that gentleman, who is of a bland and 
oily temperament, and whose eyes are concealed by a pair 
of green spectacles, produces the necessary document, and 
reads in the orthodox manner. 

" Thirtieth Half-yearly Report of the Society for the 
Distribution of Blankets and Top-Boots to the Natives of 
the Cannibal Islands. 

" The society having now reached its fifteenth anniver- 
sary, the committee of management beg to congratulate 
their friends and subscribers on the success that has been 
attained. 

" When the society first commenced its labors, the gen- 
erous and noble-minded natives of the islands, together 
with their king— a chief whose name is well-known in 
connection with one of the most sterling and heroic bal- 
lads of this country— attired themselves iu the light but 
somewhat insufficient costume of their tribe — viz: little 
before, nothing behind, and no sleeves, with the occas- 



146 THE CHAEITY DINNEB. 

ional addition of a pair of spectacles; but now, thanks to 
thi3 useful association, the upper classes of the Cannibals 
seldom appear in public without their bodies being envel- 
oped in blankets, and their feet incased in top-boots. 

" When the latter useful articles were first introduced 
into the islands, the society's agent had a vast amount of 
trouble to prevail upon the natives to apply them to their 
proper purpose; and, in their work of civilization, no less 
than twenty of its representatives were massacred, roasted, 
and eaten. But we persevered; we overcame the natural 
antipathy of the Cannibals to wear any covering to their 
feet; until, after a time, the natives discovered the warmth 
and utility of boots; and now they can scarcely be induced 
to remove them until they fall off through old age. 

"During the past half-year, the society has distributed 
no less than 71 blankets, and 128 pairs of top-boots; and 
your committee, therefore, feel convinced that they will 
not be accused of inaction. But a great work is still before 
them; and they earnestly invite co-operation, in order that 
they may be enabled to supply the whole of the Can- 
nibals with these comfortable, nutritious and savory ar- 
ticles. 

"As the balance-sheet is rather a lengthy document, I 
will merely quote a few of the figures for your satisfaction. 
We have received, during the last half-year, in subscrip- 
tions, donations, and legacies, the sum of 5,4:031. 6s. 3-4d 
We have disbursed for advertising, etc., 222/. 6s. 2d. 
Rent, rates, and taxes, 305/. 10s. l-4d Seventy-one pairs 
of blankets, at 20s. per pair, have taken 71/. exactly; and 
and 128 pairs of top-boots, at 21s. per pair, cost 134/. some 
odd shillings. The salaries and expenses of the manage- 
mentJamount to 1.307/. 4s. 2 l-2rZ. ; and sundries, which in- 
clude committee meetings and traveling expenses, have 
absorbed the remainder of the sum, and amount to 3, 268/. 
9s. 1 3-4<i. So that we have expended on the dear and in- 
teresting Cannibals the sum of 205/., and the remainder 



THE CHARITY DINNER. 147 

of the sum — amounting to 5,1981. — has been devoted to 
the working expenses of the society.'' 

The reading concluded, the secretary resumes his seat 
amid hearty applause, which continues until Mr. Alder- 
man Gobbleton rises, and, in a somewhat lengthy and dis- 
cursive speech, in which the phrases "the Corporation of 
the City of London, "suit and service," "ancient guild," 
"liberties and privileges," and "Court of Common Coun- 
cil," figure frequently, states that he agrees with every- 
thing the noble chairman has said; and has, moreover, 
never listened to a more comprehensive and exhaustive 
document than the one just read; which is calculated 
to satisfy even the most obtuse and hard-headed of indi- 
viduals. 

Gobbleton is a great man in the city. He has either 
been lord mayor, sheriff, or something of the sort; and, as 
a few words of his go a long way with his friends and 
admirers, his remarks are very favorably received. 

"Clever man, Gobbleton I" says a common council- 
man, sitting near us, to his neighbor, a languid swell of 
the period. 

"Ya-as, vewy! \Vemarkable style of owatowy — gweat 
fluency/ replies the other. 

But attention, if you please, for M. Hector de Longue- 
beau, the great French writer, is on his legs. He is stay- 
ing in England for a short time, to become acquainted 
with our manners and customs. 

"Melobs and Gentle^ans!" commences the French- 
man, elevating his eyebrows and shrugging his shoulders. 

" Milors and Gentlemans — You excellent chairman, M. 
le Baron de Mount-Stuart, he have say to me, 'Make de 
toast.' Den I say to him dat I have no toast to make; but 
he nudge my elbow ver soft, and say sat dere is von toast 
dat nobody but von Frenchman can make proper, and, 
derefore, wid your kind permission, I vill made de toast. 
'De brevete is de sole of de feet,' as you great philoso- 



148 THE CHAKITY DINNER. 

phere, Dr. Johnson, do say in dat amusing little vork of 
his, de Pronouncing Dictionnaire; and, derefore, I vill not 
say ver rnoch to de point. Ven I vos a boy, about so moch 
tall, and used for to promenade de streets of Marseilles et 
of Rouen, vid no feet to put onto my shoe, I nevare to 
have expose dat dis day \ould to have arrive. I vos to be- 
gin de vorld as von garcon — or, vat you call in dis coun- 
trie, von vaitaire in cafe — vere I vork ver hard, vid no 
habillemens at all to put onto myself, and ver little food to 
eat, excep' von old blue blouse vat vas give to me by de 
proprietaire, just for to keep myself fit to be showed at; 
but, tank goodness, tings dey have change ver moch -for 
me since dat time, and I have rose myself, seulment par 
mon industrie et perseverance. (Loud cheers.) Ah! mes 
amis! ven I hear to myself de flowing speech, de oration 
magnifique of you Lor' Maire, Monsieur Gobbledown, I 
feel dat it is von great privilege for von stranger to sit at 
de same table, and to eat de same food, as dat grand, dat 
majestique man, who are de terreur of de voleurs and de 
brigands of de metropolis; and who is also, I for to sup- 
pose, a halterman and de chef of you common scoundrel. 
Milors and gentleman s, I feel dat I can perspire to no 
greatare honneur dan to be von common scoundrelman 
myself; but helas! dat plaisir are not for me, as I are not 
freeman of your great cite, not von liveryman servant of 
von of you compaguies joint-stock. But I must not for- 
get de toast. Milors and Gentiemans! De immortal 
Shakispeare he have write, 'De ting of beauty are de joy 
for nevermore.' It is de ladies who are de toast. Vat is 
more entrancing dan de charmante smile, de soft voice, de 
vinking eye of de beautiful lady? It is de ladies who do 
sweeten de cares of life. It is de ladies who are de guid- 
ing stars of our existence. It is de ladies who do cheer 
but not inebriate, and, derefore, vid all homage to dere 
sex, de toast dat I have to propose is, 'De Ladies! God 
bless dem all!' " 



THE TWO GLASSES. 149 

And the little Frenchman sits down amid a perfect tem- 
pest of cheers. 

A few more toasts are given, the list of subscriptions is 
read, a vote of thanks is passed to the chairman, and 
the Fifteenth Annual Festival of the Society for the 
Distribution of Blankets and Top-Boots among the Na- 
tives of the Cannibal Islands is at an end. 

Litchfield Mosely. 



THE TWO GLASSES. 

There sat two glasses, filled to the brim, 
On a rich man's table, rim to rim; 
One was ruddy and red as blood, 
And one as clear as the crystal flood. 

Said the glass of wine to the paler brother, 

" Let us tell the tales of the past to each other; 

I can tell of the banquet and revel and mirth, . 

And the proudest and grandest souls on earth 

Fell under my touch as though struck by blight, 

Where I was king, for I ruled in might. 

From the heads of kings I have torn the crown; 

From the heights of fame I have hurled men down, 

I have blasted many an honored name, 

I have taken virtue and given shame; 

I have tempted the youth with a sip, to taste 

That has made his future a barren waste. 

Greater, far greater than king am I, 

Or than any army beneath the sky. 

I have made the arm of the driver fail, 

And sent the train from the iron rail; 

I ha?e made good ships go down at sea, 

And the shrieks of the lost were sweet to me, 

For they said, 'Behold, how great you be! 



150 THE TWO GLASSES. 

Fame, strength, wealth, genius before you fall, 
For your might and power are over all.' 
Ho! ho! pale brother," laughed the wine, 
"Can you boast of deeds as great as mine?" 

Said the water glass, "I cannot boast 

Of a king dethroned or a murdered host; 

But I can tell of a heart once sad, 

By my crystal drops made light and glad; 

Of thirsts I've quenched, of brows I've laved, 

Of hands I have cooled, and souls I have saved; 

I have leaped through the valley, dashed down the moun- 
tain, 
Flowed in the river and played in the fountain, 
Slept in the sunshine and dropped from the sky, 
And everywhere gladdened the landscape and eye. 
I have eased the hot forehead of fever and pain, 
I have made the parched meadows grow fertile with grain; 
I can tell of the powerful wheel of the mill, 
That ground out the flour and turned at my will; 
I can tell of manhood debased by you, 
That I have lifted and crowned anew. 
I cheer, I help, I strengthen and aid, 
I gladden the heart of the man and maid; 
I set the chained wine-captive free, 
And all are better for knowing me." 

These are the tales they told each other, 
The glass of wine and the pale brother, 
As they sat together filled to the brim, 
On the rich man's table, rim to rim. 

Ella Wheelee Wilcox. 



THE SONG OF THE CAMP, 151 



THE SONG OF THE CAMP. 

"Give us a song!" the soldier cried, 

The outer trenches guarding, 
"When the heated guns of the camps allied 

Grew weary of bombarding. 

The dark Kedan, in silent scoff, 
Lay grim and threat'ning under; 

And the tawny mound of the Malakoff 
No longer belched its thunder. 

There was a pause. A guardsman said: 
"We storm the forts to-morrow; 

Sing while we may, another day 
Will bring enough of sorrow." 

They lay along the battery's side, 

Below the smoking cannon; 
Brave hearts from Severn and from Clyde, 

And from the banks of Shannon. 

They sang of love, and not of fame, 

Forgot was Britain's glory; 
Each heart recalled a different name, 

But all sang ' -Annie Laurie." 

Voice after voice caught up the song, 

Until its tender passion 
Hose like an anthem, rich and strong, 

Their battle eve confession. 

Dear girl, her name he dared not speak, 

But as the song grew T louder, 
Something upon the soldier's cheek 

Washed off the stains of powder, 



152 tom's wife. 

Beyond the dark'ning ocean burned 

The bloody sunset's embers, 
Wbile the Crimean valleys learned 

How English love remembers. 

And once again a fire of hell 
Rained on the Eussian quarters, 

With scream of shot and burst of shell 
And billowing of the mortars. 

And Irish Nora's eyes are dim 

For a singer dumb and gory; 
And English Mary mourns for him 

Who sang of * 'Annie Laurie." 

Sleep, soldiers! still in honored rest 

Your truth and valor wearing; 
The bravest are the teuderest, 

The loving are the daring. 

Bayakd Taylob. 



TOM'S WIFE. 



They sat at the club a-smoking 
(Tom's wife was just then dead), 

And Jack was talking of old times 
And this »is what he said: 

"Have you ever loved a woman, Tom, 

Whom you did not wish to wed — 
Content to live in the sunshine 

Her presence round you shed? 
Could you see her wed another 

And feel naught of regret, 
But go on loving ever 

Till the tide of life had set? 



THE BIBLE. 153 

"I loved a woman once, Tom, 

'Tis some few years ago, 
Wueu love beat in my heart, Tom, 

With a glad, triumphant glow; 
But I never told the love, Tom, 

That I'm telling now to you, 
Though you know I could win a woman 

If I only cared to woo. 

"But I hold there's a better love, Tom, 

Than the love that seeks to win — 
A love that deems earth-marriage 

Almost a hateful sin; 
You smile and shake your head, Tom, 

In your old, half-cynic way, 
And you think my notion wild, Tom, 

So I've little more to say. 

We've been chums many a day, Tom, 

And have had no cause for strife; 
But the maid I loved with this love of mine 

Was the girl just dead— your wife." 

W. H. Harrison. 



THE BIBLE. 



There is a book, the treasure of a nation, which has now 
become the fable and the reproach of the world, though 
in former days the star of the East, to whose pages all the 
great poets ot the western world have gone to drink in di- 
vine inspiration, and from which they have learned the 
secret of elevating our hearts, and transporting our souls 
with superhuman and mysterious harmonies. This book 
is the Bible — the Boole oi books. In it Dante saw his ter- 
rific visions; from it Petrarch learned to modulate the 
voice of Lis complainings; from that burning forge the 



154 THE BIBLE. 

poet of Sorrentum drew for the splendid brightness of his 
songs. 

In the Bible are written the annals of heaven, of earth, 
and of the human race. In it, as in the divinity itself, is 
contained that which was, which is, and which is to come. 
In the first page is recorded the beginning of time and of 
all things— in its last, the end of all things and of time. It 
begins with Genesis, which is an idyl; it finishes with the 
Apocalypse of St. John, which is a funeral hymn. 

Genesis is beautiful as the first breeze which refreshed 
the world, as the first flower which budded forth in the 
fields, as the first tender word which humanity pro- 
nounced, as the first sun that rose in the East. The Apo- 
calypse is sad, like the last throb of nature, like the last 
ray of light, like the last glance of the dying; and between 
that funeral hymn and that idyl we behold all genera- 
tions pass, one after another, before the sight of God, and 
one after another, all nations. 

There all catastrophes are related or predicted, and, 
therefore, immortal models for all tragedies are to be found 
there. There we find the narration of all human griefs, 
and therefore, the Biblical harps resound mournfully, giv- 
ing the tone to all lamentations and to all elegies. Who 
will again moan like Job, when, driven to the earth by the 
mighty hand that afflicted him, he fills with his groanings 
and waters with his tears the valleys of Idumea? 

Who will aga'in lament as Jeremiah lamented, wander- 
ing around Jerusalem, and abandoned of God and men? 
Who will be mournful and gloomy, with the gloom and 
mournfulness of Ezekiel, the poet of great woes and tre- 
mendous punishments, when he gave to the winds his 
impetuous inspiration, the terror of Babylon? Who 
shall again sing like Moses, when, after crossing the Bed 
Sea, he chanted the victory of Jehovah, the defeat of 
Pharaoh, the liberty of his people? 

Who shall again chant a hymn of victory like that which 



THE BIBLE. 155 

was sung by Deborah, the Sibyl of Israel, the Amazon of 
the Hebrews, the strong women of the Bible? And if 
from hymns of victory you pass to hymns of praise, what 
temple shall ever resound like that of Israel, when those 
sweet harmonious voices arose to heaven, mingled with 
the soft perfume of the roses of Jericho, and with the 
aroma of oriental incense? 

If you seek for models of lyric poetry, what lyre shall 
we find comparable to the harp of David, the friend of 
God, who listened to the sweet harmonies and caught the 
soft tones of the harps of angels, or to that of Solonien, 
the wisest and most fortunate of monarchs, the inspired 
writer of the Song of Songs; he who put his wisdom into 
sentences and proverbs, and finished by pronouncing that 

all was vanitv? 

«/ 

If you seek for models of bucolic poetry, where will you 
find them so fresh and so pure as in the scriptural era of 
the patriarchate, when the woman and the fountain and 
the flower were friends, because they were all united — 
each one by itself the symbol of primitive simplicity and 
of candid innocence? 

A prodigious book that, gentlemen, in which the human 
race began to read thirty three centuries ago, and although 
reading it every day, every night, and every hour, have 
not yet finished its perusal. A prodigious book that, in 
which all is computed, before the science of calculation 
was invented; in which, without the stndy of the lan- 
guages, we are informed of the origin of languages; in 
which, without astronomical studies, the revolutions of the 
stars are computed; in which, without historical docu- 
ments, we are instructed in history; in which, without 
physical studies, the laws of nature are revealed. 

A prodigious book that, which sees all and knows all; 
which knows the thoughts that arise in the heart of man, 
and those which are present to the mind of God; which 
views that which passes in the abysses of the sea, and that 



156 THE BIYOUAC OF THE DEAD. 

which takes place in the bosom of the earth; which re- 
lates or predicts all the catastrophes of nations, and in 
which are contained and heaped together all the treasures 
of mercy, all the treasures of justice, and all the treasures 
of vengeance. 

A book, in short, gentlemen, which, when the heavens 
shall fold together like a gigantic scroll, and the earth 
shall faint away, and the sun withdraw its light, and the 
stars grow pale, will remain alone with God, because it 
is his eternal word, and shall resound eternally in the 
heavens. Donoso Cortes. 



THE BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD. 

The muffled drum's sad roll has beat 

The soldier's last tattoo; 
No more on life's parade shall meet 

That brave and fallen few. 
On Fame's eternal camping-ground 

Their silent tents are spread, 
And glory guards with solemn round 

The bivouac of the dead. 
No rumor of the foe's advance 

Now swells upon the wind, 
No troubled thought at midnight haunts 

Of loved ones left behind; 
No vision of the morrow's strife 

The warrior's dream alarms, 
No braying horn or screaming fife 

At dawn shall call to arms. 
Their shivered swords are red with rust, 

Their plumed heads are bowed, 
Their haughty banner trailed in dust 

Is now their martial shroud— 
And plenteous funeral tears have washed 



THE BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD. 157 

The red stains from each brow, 
And the pro ad forms by battle gashed 

Are free from anguish new. 
The neighing troop, the flashing blade, 

The bugle's stirring blast, 
The charge, the dreadful cannonade, 

The din and shout are passed — 
Nor war's wild note, nor glory's peal, 

Shall thrill with fierce delight 
Those breasts that never more may feel 

The rapture of the fight. 
Like the fierce northern hurricane 

That sweeps his great plateau, 
Flushed with the triumph yet to gain 

Came down the serried foe — 
Who heard the thunder of the fray 

Break o'er the field beneath, 
Knew well the watchword of that day 

Was victory or death. 
Full many a mother's breath hath swept 

O'er Angostura's plain, 
And long the pitying sky has wept 

Above its molder'd slain. 
The raven's scream or eagle's flight, 

Or shepherd's pensive lay, 
Alone now wake each solemn height 

That frowned o'er that dread tray. 
Sons of the Dark and Bloody Ground, 

Ye must not slumber there, 
Where stranger steps and tongues resound 

Along the heedless air! 
Your own proud land's heroic soil 

Shall be your fitter grave; 
She claims from war its richest spoil — 

The ashes of her brave. 
Thus 'neath their parent turf they rest, 



158 THE NEEDLE. 

Far from the gory field, 
Borne to a Spartan mother's breast 

On many a bloody shield. 
The sunshine of their native sky 

Shines sadly on them here, 
And kindred eyes and hearts watch by 

The heroes' sepulcher. 
Rest on, embalmed and sainted dead! 

Dear as the blood ye gave; 
No impious footstep here shall tread 

The herbage of your grave! 
Nor shall your glory be forgot 

While Fame her record keeps, 
Or Honor points the hallowed spot 

Where Valor soundly sleeps. 
Yon marble minstrel's voiceless stone 

In deathless song shall tell, 
When many a "vanished year hath flown, 

The story how ye fell; 
Nor wreck, nor change, nor winter's blight, 

Nor time's remorseless doom, 
Can dim one ray of holy light 

That gilds your glorious tomb. 

Theodore O'Haba. 



THE NEEDLE. 



The gay belle of fashion may boast of excelling 

In waltz or cotillon, at whist or quadrille; 
And seek admiration by vauntingly telling 

Of drawing, and painting, and rustical skill; 
But give me the fair one, in country or city, 

Whose home and its duties are dear to her heart, 
Who cheerfully warbles some rustical ditty, 

While plying the needle with exquisite art; 



the gambler's wife. 159 

The bright little needle — the swift-flying needle, 
The needle directed by beauty and art. 

If love have a potent, a magical token, 

A talisman, ever resistless and true — 
A charm that is never evaded or broken, 

A witchery certain the heart to subdue. 
'Tis this — and his armory never has furnished 

So keen and unerring, or polished a dart; 
Let beauty direct it, so jDointecl and burnished, 

And, oh! it is certain of touching the heart. 
The bright little needle — the swift-flying needle, 

The needle directed by beauty and art. 

Be wise, then, ye maidens, nor seek admiration 

By dressing for conquest, and flirting with all; 
You never, whatever be your fortune or station, 

Appear half so lovely at rout or at ball, 
As gayly convened at a work-covered table, 

Each cheerfully active and playing her part, 
Beguiling the task with a song or a fable, 

And plying the needle with exquisite art; 
The bright little needle — the swift-flying needle, 

The needle directed by beauty and art. 

Samuel Woodworth. 



THE GAMBLEB'S WIFE. 

Dark is the night! how dark! — no light! no fire! 
Cold on the hearth the last faint sparks expire! 
Shivering she watches by the cradle side 
For him who pledged her love — last year a bride! 
"Hark! 'tis his footstep! No — 'tis past; 'tis gone; 
Tick!— tick! How wearily the time crawls on. 
Why should he leave me thus? He once was kind, 
And I believed 'twould last — how mad! how blind! 



160 THE GAMBLEK'S WIFE. 

Best thee, my babe — rest on! 'Tis hunger's cry! 

Sleep, for there is no food, the fount is dry. 

Famine and cold their wearying work have done; 

My heart must break! And thou!"— The clock strikes 

one. 
"Hush! 'tis the dice-box. Yes, he's there, he's there! 
For this, for this, he leaves me to despair! 
Leaves love, leaves truth, his wife, his child — for what? 
The wanton's smile — the villain — and the sot! 
Yet I'll not curse him; no — 'tis all in vain. 
'Tis long to wait, but sure he'll come again; 
And I could starve and bless him, but for you, 
My child — his child — oh, fiend!" — The clock strikes two. 
"Hark! how the sign-board creaks, the blast howls by! 
Moan — moan! A dirge swells through the cloudy sky! 
Ha! 'tis his knock — he comes — he comes once more — 
'Tis but the lattice flaps. Thy hope is o'er. 
Can he desert me thus? He knows I stav 
Night after night in loneliness to pray 
For his return — aud yet he sees no tear. 
No, no! it cannot be. He will be here. 
Nestle more closely, dear one, to my heart; 
Thou'rt cold — thou'rt freezing; but we will not part. 
Husband, I die! Father, it is not he! 
Oh, Heaven, protect my child!" — The clock strikes three. 
They're gone! they're gone! The glimmering spark hath 

fled, 
The wife and child are number'd with the dead! 
On the cold earth, outstretched in solemn rest, 
The child lies frozen on its mother's breast! 
The gambler came at last — but all was oV.r — 
Dead silence reigned around — he groaned — he spoke no 

more! 

E. K. Coates. 



THE BATTLE OF FONTENOY. 161 



THE BATTLE OF FOXTENOY. 

At Fontenoy, Belgium, on May 11, 1745, tlie French Army under Mar- 
shal Saxe, was opposed by the allied troops of the English, Dutch, and 
Austrians. The allied forces were commanded by the Duke of Cumber- 
land, and fought so valiantly that they had already gained the hill, the 
possession of which assured a decisive victory, when Marshal Saxe, de- 
termined upon a last and almost hopeless effort, called up his reserves, 
among which was the brigade of Irish exiles. Pointing to the English, 
Marshal Saxe said to Lord Clare, who was in command of the Irish 
Brigade, "There are your Saxon foes!" In a minute the exclamation 
passed from lip to lip, and the Irish exiles fought so desperately that the 
opposing forces, after a long and fierce fight, were driven from the field, 
with a loss of 8.000 killed, wounded, and prisoners. The loss of the French 
was about the same, showing that the conflict had been well contested 
on both sides, and had been decided by the valor and determination of 
the very men of whom George the Second said, "Cursed be the laws 
which deprive me of such subjects!" 

Thrice, at the heights of Fontenoy, the English column 
failed, 

And twice the lines of Saint Antoine the Dutch in vain 
assailed; 

For town and slope were filled with fort and flanking bat- 
tery, 

And well they swept the English ranks, and Dutch auxil- 
iary. 

As vainly through De Barri's wood the British soldiers 
burst, 

The French artillery drove them back, diminished and dis- 
persed. 

The bloody Duke of Cumberland beheld with anxious 
eye, 

And ordered up his last reserve, his latest chance to try. 

On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, how fast his generals ride! 

And mustering come his chosen troops, like clouds at 
eventide. 

Six thousand English veterans in stately column tread, 



162 THE BATTLE OF FONTENOY. 

Their cannon blaze in front and flank, Lord Hay is at their 

head; 
Steady they step adown the slope — steady they climb the 

hill; 
Steady they load — steady they fire, moving right onward 

still, 
Betwixt the wood and Fontenoy, as through a furnace 

blast, 
Through rampart, trench, and palisade, and bullets show- 
ering fast; 
And, on the open space above, they rose, and kept their 

course, 
"With ready fire and grim resolve, that mocked at hostile 

force. 
Past Fontenoy, past Fontenoy, while thinner grow their 

ranks — 
They break, as broke the Zuyder Zee through Holland's 

ocean banks! 

More idly than the summer flies, French tirailleurs rush 

round. 
As stubble to the lava tide, French squadrons strew the 

ground; 
Bomb-shell, and grape, and round-shot tore, still on they 

marched and fired — 
Fast from each volley grenadier and voltigeur retired. 
"Push on, my household cavalry!" King Louis madly 

cried; 
To death they rush, but rude their shock — not unavenged 

they died. 
On through the camp the column trod — King Louis turns 

his rein. 
"Not yet, my liege," Saxe interposed, "the Irish troops 

remain!" 
And Fontenoy, famed Fontenoy, had been a Waterloo — 
Were not these exiles ready then, fresh, vehement, and true? 



THE BATTLE OF FONTENOY. 163 

"Lord Clare," he says, "you have your wish, there are 

yo ur Saxon foes!" 
The marshal almost smiles to see, so furiously he goes! 
How fierce the look these exiles wear, who're wont to be 

so gay, 
The treasured wrongs of fifty years are in their hearts to- 
day— 
The treaty broken, ere the ink wherewith 'twas writ could 

dry, 
Their plundered homes, their ruined shrines, their women's 

parting cry, 
Their priesthood hunted down like wolves, their country 

overthrown — 
Each looks as if revenge for all was staked on him alone. 
On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, nor ever yet elsewhere 
Bushed on to fight a nobler band than these proud exiles 

were. 

O'Brien's voice is hoarse with joy, as, halting, he com- 
mands, 

"Fix bayonets! Charge! Like mountain storm rush on 
these fiery bands!'' 

Thin is the English column now, and faint their volleys 
grow, 

Yet must'ring all the strength they have, they make a gal- 
lant show. 

They dress their ranks upon the hill to face that battle- 
wind— 

Their bayonets the breakers' foam; like rocks the men be- 
hind! 

One volley crashes from the line, when through the surg- 
ing smoke, 

With empty guns clutched in their hands, the headlong 
Irish broke. 

On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, hark to that fierce huzza! 

"Revenge! remember Limerick! dash down the Sassenach!" 



164: THE DKONES OP THE COMMUNITY. 

Like lions leaping at a fold, when mad with hunger's 

pang, 
Right up against the English line the Irish exiles sprang; 
Bright was their steel — 'tis bloody now; their guns are 

filled with gore; 
Through shattered ranks, and severed files, and trampled 

flags they tore; 
The English strove with desperate strength, paused, ral- 
lied, staggered, fled — 
The green hill-side is matted close with dying and with 

dead. 
Across the plain, and far away, passed on that hideous 

wrack, 
While cavalier and fantassin dash in upon their track. 
On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, like eagles in the sun, 
With bloody plumes the Irish stand — the field is fought 

and won! 

Thomas Davis. 



THE DRONES OF THE COMMUNITY. 

Those gilded flies 
That, basking in the sunshine of a Court, 
Fatten on its corruption — what are they? 
The drones of the community! they feed 
Onthe mechanic's labor; the starved hind 
For them compels the stubborn glebe to yield 
Its unshared harvests; and yon squalid form, 
Leaner than fleshless misery, that wastes 
A sunless life in the unwholesome mine 
Drags out in labor a protracted death, 
To glut their grandeur. Many faint with toil, 
That few may know the cares and woe of sloth. 
Whence, think'st thou, kings and parasites arose? 
Whence that unnatural line of drones, who heap 



THE DRONES OF THE COMMUNITY. 165 

Toil and unvanquishable penury 

On those who build their palaces, and bring 

Their daily bread? — From vice, black, loathsome vice; 

From rapine, madness, treachery, and wrong; 

From all that genders misery, and makes 

Of earth this thorny wilderness; from lust 

Revenge, and murder — And, when Reason's voice, 

Loud as the voice of nature, shall have waked 

The Nations; and mankind perceive that vice 

Is discord, war, and misery — that virtue 

Is peace, and happiness, and harmony; 

When man's maturer nature shall disdain 

The playthings of its childhood— kingly glare 

Will lose its power to dazzle; its authority 

Will silently pass by; the gorgeous throne 

Shall stand unnoticed in the regal hall, 

Fast falling to decay, whilst falsehood's trade 

Shall be as hateful and unprofitable 

As that of truth is now. 

Where is the fame 
Which the vain-glorious mighty of the earth 
Seek to eternize? Oh! the faintest sound 
From time's light footfall, the minutest wave 
That swells the flood of ages, whelms in nothing 
The unsubstantial bubble. Ay! to-day 
Stern is the tyrant's mandate — red the gaze 
That scatters multitudes. To-morrow comes, 
That mandate is a thunder-peal that died 
In ages past; that gaze, a transient flash 
On which the midnight closed; and on that arm 
The worm has made his meal. 

Peeoy Bysshe Shelley. 



166 nature's nobleman. 



NATURE'S NOBLEMAN. 

Away with false fashion, so calm and so chill, 

Where pleasure itself cannot please; 
Away with cold breeding, that faithlessly still 

Affects to be quite at its ease; 
For the deepest in feeling is highest in rank, 

The freest is. first in the band, 
And nature's own nobleman, friendly and frank, 

Is a man with his heart in his hand! 

Fearless in honesty, gentle, yet just, 

He warmly can love and can hate, 
Nor will he bow down with his face in the dust, 

To fashion's intolerant state; 
For best in good breeding, and highest in rank, 

Though lowly or poor in the land, 
Is nature's own Nobleman, friendly and frank, 

The man with his heart in his hand! 

His fashion is passion, sincere and intense, 

His impulses, simple and true; 
Yet tempered by judgment, and taught by good sense, 

And cordial with me and with you; 
For the finest in manners, as highest in rank, 

Is you, man! or you, man! who stand 
Nature's own Nobleman, friendly and frank, 

A man with his heart in his hand! 

Martin F. Tupper. 



THE WORLD FOR SALE. 167 

THE WOBLD FOK SALE. 

The World For Sale!— Hang out the sign! 

Call every traveler here to me; 
"Who'll buy this brave estate of mine, 

And set me from earth's bondage free? 
'Tis going!- — yes, I mean to fling 

The bauble from my soul away; 
I'll sell it, whatsoe'er it bring,- 

The World at Auction here to-day! 

It is a glorious thing to see — 

Ah, it has cheated me so sore! 
It is not what it seems to be, 

For sale! It shall be mine no more. 
Come, turn it o'er and view it well, 

I would not have you purchase dear; 
'Tis going! going! — I must sell! 

Who bids?— Who'll buy the splendid Tear? 

Here's Wealth in glittering heaps of gold — 

Who bids? — But let me tell you fair, 
A baser lot was never sold; 

Who'll buy the heavy heaps of care? 
And here, spread out in broad domain, 

A goodly landscape all may trace; 
Hall, cottage, tree, field, hill, and plain, 

Who'll buy himself a burial-place? 

Here's Love, the dreamy potent spell 

That beauty flings around the heart; 
I know its power, alas! too well, 

'Tis going! — Love and I must part. 
Must part? — What can I more with Love? 

All over the enchanter's reign; 
Who'll buy the plumeless, dying dove, 

An hour of bliss — an age of pain? 



168 THE WORLD FOR SALE. 

And Friendship — rarest gem of earth — 

(Whoe'er hath founi the jewel his?) 
Frail, fickle, false, and little worth — 

Who bids for Friendship — as it is. 
'Tis going! going! — Hear the call? 

Once, twice, and thrice! — 'tis very low; 
'Twas once my hope, my stay, my all, 

But now the broken staff must go! 

Fame! hold the brilliant meteor high, 

How dazzling every gilded name; 
Ye millions, now's the time to buy! 

How much for Fame? How much for Fame? 
Hear how it thunders! — Would you stand 

On high Olympus, far renown'd; 
Now purchase, and a world command, 

And be with a world's curses crown'd! 

Sweet star of Hope, with ray to shine 

In every sad foreboding breast, 
Save this desponding one of mine, 

Who bids for man's last friend and be3t. 
Ah, were not mine a bankrupt life, 

This treasure should my soul sustain; 
But Hoj^e and I are now at strife, 

Nor ever may unite again. 

And Song! For sale my tuneless lute, 

Sweet solace, mine no more to hold; 
The chords that charm'd my soul are mute; 

I can not wake the notes of old! 
Or e'en were mine a wizard shell, 

Could chain a world in rapture high; 
Yet now a sad farewell! — farewell! 

Must on its last faint echoes die. 

Ambition, fashion, show, and pride, 
I part from all forever now; 



PKOCRASTINATION. 169 

Grief, in an overwhelming tide, 

Has taught my haughty heart to bow. 

Poor heart! distracted, ah, so long, 
And still its aching throb to bear; 

How broken, that was once so strong, 
How heavy, once so free from care. 

No more for me life's fitful dream, 

Bright vision, banishing away; 
My bark requires a deeper stream, 

My sinking soul a surer stay. 
By Death, stern sheriff! all bereft, 

I weep, yet humbly kiss the rod, 
The best of all I still have left, 

My Faith, my Bible, and my God. 

Ralph Hoyt. 



PROCRASTINATION. 

If Fortune with a smiling face, 

Strew roses on our way; 
"When shall we stoop to pick them up? 

To-day, my friend, to-day. 
But should she frown with face of care, 

And talk of coming sorrow; 
When shall we grieve, if grieve we must? 

To-morrow, friend, to-morrow. 

If those who've wronged us, own their fault, 

And kindly pity pray, 
When shall we listen, and forgive? 

To-day, my friend, to-day. 
But, if stern Justice urge rebuke, 

And warmth from Memory borrow, 
When shall we chide, if chide we dare? 

To-morrow, friend, to-morrow. 



170 NEVER DESPAIR. 

If those to whom we owe a debt, 

Are harmed unless we pay, 
When shall we struggle to be just? 

To-day, my friend, to-day. 
But, if our debtor fail our hope, 

And plead his ruin thorough, 
When shall we weigh his breach of faith? 

To-morrow, friend, to-morrow. 

For virtuous acts, and harmless joys, 

The minutes will not stay; 
We've always time to welcome them, 

To-day, my friend, to-day. 
But care, resentment, angry words, 

And unavailing sorrow, 
Come far too soon, if they appear 

To-morrow, friend, to-morrow. 

Charles Mackay. 



NEVEE DESPAIE. 

This motto I give to the young and the old, 
More precious by far than a treasure of gold; 
'Twill prove to its owner a talisman rare, 
More potent than magic — 'tis Never Despair! 

No, never despair, whatsoe'er be thy lot, 

If Fortune's gay sunshine illumine it not; 

Mid its gloom, and despite its dark burden of care, 

If thou canst not be cheerful, yet, Never Despair! 

Oh! what if the sailor a coward should be, 
When the tempest comes down, in its wrath on the sea, 
And the mad billows leap, like wild beasts from their lair, 
To make him their prey, if he yield to Despair? 



ADVICE TO A YOUNG MAN. 171 

Bat see him amid the fierce strife of the waves, 
When around his frail vessel the storm demon raves; 
How he rouses his soul up to do and to dare! 
And, while there is life left, will Never Despair! 

Thou, too, art a sailor, and Time is the sea, 
And life the frail vessel that upholdeth thee; 
Fierce storms of misfortune will fall to thy share, 
But, like the bold mariner, Never Despair! 

Let not the wild tempest thy spirit affright, 

Shrink not from the storm, though it come in its might; 

Be watchful, be ready, for shipwreck prepare, 

Keep an eye on the life-boat, and Never Despair! 

Wm. 0. Kichakds. 



ADVICE TO A YOUNG MAN. 

What would I have you do? I'll tell you, kinsman; 
Learn to be wise, and practice how to thrive; 
That would I have you do; and not to spend 
Your coin on every bauble that you fancy, 
Or every foolish brain that humors you. 

I would not have you to invade each place, 
Nor thrust yourself on all societies, 
Till men's affections, or your own desert, 
Should worthily invite you to your rank. 
He that is S3 respectless in his courses, 
Oft sells his reputation at cheap market. 

Nor would I you should melt away yourself 
In flashing bravery, lest, while you affect 
To make a blaze of gentry to the world, 
A little puff of scorn extinguish it, 
And you be left like an unsavory snuff, 
Whose property is only to offend. 



172 ONWABD, ONWAED. 

I'd have you sober, and contain yourself; 

Not that your sail be bigger than your boat; 

But moderate your expenses now (at first), 

As you may keep the same proportion still. 

Nor stand so much on your gentility, 

Which is an airy, and mere borrowed thing, 

From dead men's dust and bones; and none of yours, 

Except you make or hold it. 

Ben Jonson. 



ONWABD, ONWAKD. 

Onward! Onward is the language of creation! The 
stars whisper it in their courses; the seasons breathe it, as 
they succeed each other; the night wind whistles it; the 
water of the deep roars it out; the mountains lift up their 
heads, and tell it to the clouds; and Time, the hoary- 
headed potentate, proclaims it with an iron tongue! From 
clime to clime, from ocean to ocean, from century to cen- 
tury, and from planet to planet, all is onward. 

From the smallest rivulet down to the unfathomable sea, 
every thing is onward. Cities hear its voice, and rise up 
in magnificence; nations hear it, and sink into the dust; 
monarchs learn it, and tremble on their thrones; continents 
feel it, and are convulsed with an earthquake. 

Men, customs, fashions, tastes, opinions, and prejudices, 
are all onward. States, counties, towns, districts, cities, 
and villages are all onward, That word never ceases to 
influence the destinies of men. Science cannot arrest it, 
nor philosophy divert it from its purpose. It flows with 
the very blood in our veins, and every second of time 
chronicles its progress. 

From one stage of civilization to another, from one 
towering landmark to another, from one attitude of glory 
to another, we still move upward and onward. Thus did 



THE CYNIC. 173 

our forefathers escape the barbarisms of past ages; thus 
do we conquer the errors of our time, and draw nearer to 
the invisible, 

So must we move onward, with our armor bright, our 
weapons keen, and our hearts firm as the " everlasting 
hills." Every muscle must be braced, every nerve strung, 
every energy roused, and every thought watchful. On- 
ward is the watchword! Linn^us Banks. 



THE CYNIC. 



The Cynic is one who never sees a good quality in a 
man, and never fails to see a bad one. He is the human 
owl, vigilant in darkness, and blind to light, mousing for 
vermin, and never seeing noble game. The cynic puts ail 
human actions into only two classes — openly bad, and se- 
cretly bad. 

All virtue and generosity and disinterestedness are 
merely the appearance of good, but selfish at the bottom. 
He holds that no man does a good thing, except for profit. 
The effect of his conversation upon your feelings, is 
to chill and sear them; to send you away sour and morose. 
His criticisms and innuendoes fall indiscriminately upon 
every lovely thing, like frost upon flowers. 

"Mr. A," says some one, "is a religious man." He will 
answer: "Yes, on Sundays ." "Mr. B has just joined the 
church:" "Certainly; the elections are coming on." The 
minister of the gospel is called an example of diligence: 
"It is his trade." Such a man is generous: — "of other men's 
money." This man is obliging: — "to lull suspicion and 
cheat you." That man is upright: — "because he is green." 

Thus, his eye strains out every good quality, and takes 
in only the bad. To him religion is hypocrisy, honesty a 
preparation for fraud, virtue only want of opportunity, and 
undeniable purity, asceticism. The livelong day he will 



174 THE CYNIC. 

sit with sneering lip, uttering sharp speeches in the quiet- 
est manner, and in polished phrase, transfixing every char- 
acter which is presented: "His words are softer than oil, 
yet are they drawn sivords." 

All this, to the young, seems a wonderful knowledge of 
human nature; they honor a man who appears to have 
found out mankind. They begin to indulge themselves in 
flippant sneers; and, with supercilious brow, and impu- 
dent tongue, wagging to an empty brain, call to naught 
the wise, the long-tried, and the venerable. 

I do believe that man is corrupt enough; but something 
of good has survived his wreck; something of evil, re- 
ligion has restrained, and something partially restored; 
yet, I look upon the human heart as a mountain of fire. I 
dread its crater. I tremble when I see its lava roll the 
fiery stream. 

Therefore, I am the more glad, if, upon the old crust of 
past eruptions, I can find a single flower springing up. So 
far from rejecting appearances of virtue in the corrupt 
heart of a depraved race, I am eager to see their light, as 
ever mariner was to see a star in a stormy night. 

Moss will grow upon grave-stones; the ivy will cling to 
the moldering pile; the mistletoe springs from the dying 
branch; and, God be praised, something green, something 
fair to the sight and grateful to the heart will yet twine 
around, and grow out of the seams and cracks of the deso- 
late temple of the human heart! 

Henry Ward Beecher. 



THE YANKEE BOY. 175 



THE YANKEE BOY. 

The Yankee boy, before he's sent to school, 
Well knows the mysteries of that magic tool, 
The pocket-knife. To that his wistful eye 
Turns, while he hears his mother's lullaby; 
His hoarded cents he gladly gives to get it, 
Then leaves no stone unturned till he can whet it; 
And, in the education of the lad, 
No little part that implement hath had. 

His pocket-knife to the young whittler brings 
A growing knowledge of material things. 
Projectiles, music, and the sculptor's art, 
His chestnut whistle, and his shingle dart, 
His elder pop-gun, with his hickory rod, 
Its sharp explosion aud rebounding wad; 
His corn-stalk fiddle, and the deeper tone 
That murmurs from his pumpkin-leaf trombone, 
Conspire to teach the boy. 

To these succeed 
His bow, his arrow of a feathered reed, 
His wind-mill, raised the passing breeze \o win, 
His water-wheel, that turns upon a pin; 
Or, if his father lives uiDon the shore, 
You'll see his ship, beam ends upon the floor, 
Full rigged, with raking masts and timbers staunch, 
And waiting, near the wash tub, for a launch. 

Thus, by his genius and his jackknife driven, 

Ere long he'll solve you any problem given; 

Make any gimcrack, musical or mute, 

A plow, a coach, an organ, or a flute; 

Make you a locomotive, or a clock, 

Cut a canal, or build a floating dock, 

Or lead forth beauty from a marble block, 



176 TKIBUTE TO GENIUS AND LABOR. 

Make anything, in short, for sea or shore, 

From a child's rattle to a seventy -four. 

Make it, said I? Ay, when he undertakes it, 

He'll make the thing, and the machine that makes it. 

And, when the thing is made, whether it be 
To move on earth, in air, or on the sea, 
Whether on water, o'er the waves to glide, 
Or upon land, to roll, revolve, or slide; 
Whether to whirl or jar, to strike or ring, 
Whether it be a piston or a spring, 
Wheel, pulley, tube sonorous, wood or brass, 
The thing designed shall surely come to pass; 
For, when his hand's upon it, you may know 
That there's go in it, and he'll make it go. 

John Pieepont. 



TKIBUTE TO GENIUS AND LABOR 

The camp has had its day of song; 

The sword, the bayonet, the plume, 
Have crowded out of rhyme too long 

The plow, the anvil, and the loom. 
Oh, not upon our tented fields 

Are Freedom's heroes bred alone, 
The training of the workshop yields 

More heroes true than war has known. 

Who drives the bolt, who shapes the steel, 
May, with the heart as valiant, smite, 

As he who sees a foeman reel 

In blood before his blow of might! 

The skill that conquers space and time, 
That graces life, that lightens toil; 

May spring from courage more sublime 
Than that which makes a realm its spoil. 



THE HOUR-GLASS. 177 

Let Labor, then, look up and see 

His craft no path of honor lacks; 
The soldier's rifle jet shall be 

Less honored than the woodman's ax. 
Let Art his own appointment prize, 

Nor deem that gold or outward height 
Can compensate the worth that lies 

In tastes that breed their own delight. 

And may the time draw nearer still, 

When men this sacred truth shall heed, 
That from the thought and from the will 

Must all that raises man proceed! 
Though Pride should hold our calling low, 

For us shall duty make it good; 
And w T e from truth to truth shall go, 

Till life and death are understood. 

Epes Sargent, 



THE HOUE-GLASS. 

Alas! how swift the moments fly! 

How flash tne hours along; 
Scarce here, yet gone already by, 

The burden of a song. 
See childhood, youth, and manhood pass, 

And age with furrowed brow; 
Time was — time shall be- — drain the glass — 

But where in Time is Now? 

Time is the measure but of change, 

No present hour is found; 
The Past, the Future, fill the range 

Of Time's unceasing round. 



178 THE HOUK-GLASS. 

Where then is now? In realms above, 

With God's atoning Lamb, 
In regions of eternal love, 

Where sits enthroned "I am." 

Then, Pilgrim, let thy joys and tears 

On Time no longer lean, 
But, henceforth, all thy hopes and fears, 

From earth's affections wean. 
To God let votive accents rise, 

With truth — with virtue live; 
So all the bliss that Time denies, 

Eternity shall give. 

John Quincy Adams. 



THE LOAN OF A LOVEB. 179 



THE LOAN OF A LOVER. 



A VAUDEVILLE, IN ONE ACL 



By ar. n- plamche, 

Author of "The Captain of the Watch." etc. 



Captain Aniersfort. 
Peter Spjk. 
Swyzel. 



CHAEACTEES. 

Delve. 



Gertrude. 
Ernestine Eosendaal. 



SCENEEY. 



Scene. — Gardens of a villa on the canal near Utrecht. 
The tower of the cathedral is seen in the distance. In one 
corner of the gardens, overlooking the canal, is a summer- 
house, R., in the Dutch taste. 



COSTUMES. 

Captain Amersfort. — Officer's uniform. 

Peter Spyk. — Nankeen jacket, flowered vest, full trunks, 
blue stocking?, and Dutch hat. 

Swyzel. — Buff coat and trunks, figured vest, blue stock- 
ings and hat. 

Deeve. — Brown jacket and trunks, striped stockings, and 
russet hat. 

Gertrude. — Neat peasant's dress, with broad hat. — Second 
dress: Wedding dress of white muslin, trimmed with 
flowers. 

Ernestine. — Silk spencer, white muslin dress, scarf, and 
Swiss straw hat. 



180 THE LOAN OF A LOVER. 

PEOPEKTIES. 

Note for Amersfort; note for Delve: clock to strike oft 
stage. 



EXPLANATION OF THE STAGE DIRECTIONS. 

The Actor is supposed to face the Audience. 



d. e. c. c. D. d. l. c. 

R. TJ. E. SCENE. L. U. E. 



R. 3 E. 



/ 



\ 



R. 2 E. 



/ 



L. 3e. 



R. 1 E. 



/ 



L. 2 E. 



\ 



/ 



\ 



L. 1 E. 



R. R. C. C. L. O. L. 

AUDIENCE. 



L. 
L. C. 



Left. 

Left Center. 

Left First Entrance. 

Left Second Entrance. 

Left Third Entrance. 
L u. e. Left Upper Entrance. 

(wherever this Scene may be.) 
d. c. l. Door Left Center. 



1e. 

2 b. 



L. 3 E. 



c. Center. 
e. Eight. 

e. 1 e. Eight First Entrance. 
e. 2 e. Eight Second Entrance. 
e. 3 e. Eight Third Entrance. 
e. tj. e. Eight Upper Entrance. 

d. e. c. Door Eight Center. 



SYNOPSIS. 



This charming little piece holds its own, both on the 
stage and in the closet, in spite of the number of similar 
pieces which have been since produced. In the garden of 
a splendid villa, Swyzel and Delve, the former steward, 



THE LOAN OF A LOVER. 181 

the other gardener to the rich and beautiful lady, Ernes- 
tine Eosendaal by name. The two are discussing the 
projects and whims of their mistress, when Peter Spyk 
joins them. The old steward expresses his surprise that 
Peter does not get married, as he i3 a well-to-do young 
farmer. Spyk answers that he has had thoughts of chang- 
ing his condition, but somehow cannot fix upon any par- 
ticular young woman, w T ho is in all respects suitable. 
Peter goes on to say, that he has consulted "little Ger- 
trude" on the subject, and that she clearly explained to 
him why there was not a solitary girl on his matrimonial 
list, that would answer for his wife; one was too fat, an- 
other too lean; one too poor, another too rich; one too 
frivolous, another too serious; and so on to the end of the 
list. Both the Steward and Spyk, though they regard 
"little Gertrude" as something of a simpleton, own that 
she has very sensible ideas at times. Indeed, it was at her 
suggestion that Peter now came to the villa to ask Cap- 
tain Amersfort, (a visitor, and a suitor to the lady Ernes- 
tine,) to let him (Spyk) have a lease of his fine Appledoorn 
farm. While they are talking, Gertrude comes running 
in to tell the Steward that he was wanted to furnish wine 
for the table. Swyzel leaves them together, and Gertrude* 
tries all the innocent artifices of a natural-born coquette to* 
elicit a compliment or even a kind word from her cousin 
Peter. But the stolid peasant is blind to her smiles, and 
deaf to her words. Before leaving Gertrude, Spyk tells 
her that if she can find him a suitable wife, he will make* 
her a present tho day that he is married, and that she shall 
dance at his wedding. A cheerful prospect for a girl who 
is over head and ears in love with him. After he departs* 
Gertrude gives vent to her feelings by singing a pretty 
song, and retires to back of stage sobbing. Ernestine an cl 
Captain Amersfort enter, and have a little dispute. He 
is anxious to have the lady's promise to be his wife; but 
she is not to be so easily won. Ernestine learns from the 



182 THE LOAN OF A LOVER. 

weeping Gertrude, her maid and almost foster-sister, that 
her grief is occasioned by the fact that she has no lover; 
when the lady playfully suggests that as she has. a super- 
fluity of the by-no-means desirable article, she will give 
the maid one of hers, and accordingly tenders the hand- 
some Captain in that capacity. The village maid grate- 
fully accepts the puzzled beau; but explains to the lady 
that she only wants the loan of a lover, not the gift of one. 
Gertrude contrives to awaken love in the heart of Peter 
through his jealousy, when he sees that the officer is ap- 
parently in love with Gertrude. In this way the girl 
brings Peter to make a declaration of his wish to marry 
her. Meanwhile, the Captain, by skillfully playing the 
lover, as ordered by his mistress, has awakened the jealous 
feelings of the high-born lady, who quickly capitulates to 
the gallant Captain, and general happiness is the result of 
this "Loan of a Lover." 



THE PLAY. 



Scene. — Gardens of a villa o a the canal near Utrecht. Tlie 
tower of the cathedral is seen in the distance. In one cor- 
ner of the garden, overlooking the canal, is a summer- 
house, r., in the Dutch taste. 

Enter Swyzel and Delve, r. 

Swyzel. Do as you're bid, and no reflections. Don't 
you know the mistress is the master? 

Delve. Well, but now really, Mynheer Swyzel — to put 
out the orange trees before the white frosts are over — is 
that common sense? 

Swy. What have you to do with common sense? Noth- 
ing at all — or you would not pretend to have more than 



THE LOAN OF A LOVER. 183 

your mistress. It is Mamzelle Ernestine's pleasure to turn 
the orangery into a ball-room, and turned it must be. 

Del. But the trees will die. 

Swy. Let 'em die, then — that's their business — yours is 
to clear the place out, according to order. About it, with- 
out more words! If she told me to fling all the Schiedam 
in the cellar into the canal, I should do so without hesita- 
tion. 

Del. You'd fling yourself after it, I'm sure. 

Swy. iNot when it was mixed with water, you rogue! or 
while the baron has money enough to buy more. Come — 
to work! to work! or you'll not get the room ready by 
midnight. 

Del. Oh, my poor orange trees — they'll die — every one 
of them. (Exit, r. 

Swy. Silly fellow, to trouble his head about what does 
not concern him. If his employers take no care for their 
own interests, why should he fidget about them? He 
hasn't the slightest notion of service! Ah, here's Peter 
Spyk. 

Enter Peter, l. 

Well, Peter? 

Peter. Good-morning, Master Steward. 

Swy. So you've been to Amsterdam to buy cattle, I 
hear? 

Peter. Ay, and fine beasts they are, too, Master Stew- 
ard. But, talking of beasts, how do you find yourself 
to-day? You were rather poorly when I left. 

Swy. Oh, I'm better, thank you, but I'm not so young 
as I was thirty years ago — I find that, Peter. Ah, I envy 
you, you rogue! Three-and-twenty — stout-timbered — 
light-hearted, and rich, I may say; for old Jan Spyk, your 
father, left you a pretty round sum, I take it? 

Peter. Why, it might have been less, and yet worth 
having, Master Steward. 



184 THE LOAN OF A LOVER. 

Swt. Well, and why don't you get a wife, now? Allthe 
girls in the neighborhood are pulling caps for you. 

Petek. Why, I don't know; they do look at ine, some- 
how, but I'm not smitten with anybody in particular. 
However, I don't wish to prevent them — they may fall in 
love with me, and then I can choose, you know. 

Swy. Well, perhaps that's the best way. 

Peter. Yes, I think so; as Gertrude said to me the 
other day, "You don't love anybody in particular, Peter, 
so you can look about you." 

Swy. Gertrude — what, our Gertrude? The simpleton 
that has the run of the house and gardens by permission 
of the baron, because she's the orphan daughter of his old 
bailiff, and who is always so mighty busy, doing nothing- 
at all, by way of earning the living allowed her! Is she 
your counselor? 

Peter. Oh, she and I gossip now and then, when wo 
meet. She's a sort of relation of mine; my brother-in-law's 
aunt stood grandmother to her. 

Swy. Well, that is a sort of relation, certainly. 

Peter. And then, you see, simpleton as she is, she has 
now and then an idea, and that's the only thing I want; I 
never have an idea. It's very odd, but I never have what 
you can really call an idea — of my own, that is — for I'm 
quick enough, if a person only just — and yesterday, now, 
I saw her but for two or three minutes, and I'll be hanged 
if she didn't give me a capital idea! and that's what has 
brought me here this morning. You've a Captain Amers- 
fort staying here, haven't you? 

Swy. Oh, yes; one of our young lady's score of lovers — 
and the best of 'em, too, to my mind; but she's too capri- 
cious to make up hers. He's a fine fellow — handsome, 
clever, gallant 

Peter. And landlord of the fine farm of Appledoorn — so 
Gertrude says. 

Swy. Ah! and you want to be his tenant, no doubt? 



THE LOAN OF A LOVES. 185 

Peter. Why, Gertrude thinks 

Swy. Well, she's right there; it's pretty property, but 
there are several farmers offering. 

Peter. So she tells me; but she says that if you were to 
speak to the captain in my favor— 

Swy. Well, she's right there, too. If I were to speak 

Petek. And will you, will you, Master Steward? I've a 
keg at home of the finest flavor, which I should be too 
happy- 

Swy. Pshaw! pshaw! you know, if I do anything, it's 
never with a view to benefit myself, Peter; (crosses, r.) so 
send me the keg, if it will serve you, and we'll see what 
can be done about it. 

Gertrude (without, l.) Mynheer Swyzel! Mynheer Swy- 
zel! 

Swy. Here comes Gertrude. 

Enter Gertrude, running, l. 

Ger. Mynheer Swyzel! Mynheer Swyzel! 

Swy. Well, don't bawl so, you young baggage. (Crosses, 
c.) What do you want? 

Ger. (out of breath). You're to go directly — I've been 
looking for you everywhere, to tell you — there's Peter 
Spyk. 

Swy. To tell me that? why, I know that. 

Ger. No; to tell you — to tell you — how d'ye do, Peter? 
Are you very well? (Crosses, c. 

Peter. Ay, ay! 

Swy. Will you tell me what you mean to tell me? 

Ger. Law! I'd almost forgotten— I'd run so fast. How 
well Peter looks this morning, don't he? 

Swy. Do let Peter alone! and tell me who wants me, 
and what for. Is it the wine for breakfast? 

Ger. Yes, that's it; you've got the keys of the cellar, 
and the baron wants some of the best Moselle, to give 
Captain Amersfort. 



186 THE LOAN OF A DDVER. 

Swy. Good-morning, then, Peter. I'll take an oppor- 
tunity of speaking to the captain, depend upon it. I 
must go now for the baron. 

French Air. 

Gertrude. 

Well, but make more haste about it, 
Master wants to treat his guest. 

Swyzed. 

Oh, I'll please him — never doubt it! 
Of his wines I know the best. 
He shall own, that down his throttle, 
Such has seldom found its way. 

Gertrude [aside). 
Then you'll get him up a bottle 
Of what you drink every day. [Exit Swyzel, Ij. 

Ger. [aside). An old rogue, I am sure he is; and he 
always snubs me and scolds me. So does everybody, in- 
deed, except Peter. Peter never snubs me, at any rate; 
but that's because he hardly ever speaks to me. Now, 
only look at him this moment; there he stands, puffing 
away with his pipe, and turning up the whites of his eyes. 
Now, what can he be thinking about? — that is, if he is 
thinking; suppose it's about — [aloud, and taking hold of his 
arm) Peter! 

Peter. Eh! Oh, you're here still, are you? 

Ger. [aside). How civil! [Aloud). Yes, I'm here still; 
and if I had kept still, you'd never have known it, seem- 
ingly. What are you thinking about so deeply? 

Peter. Thinking about? Why, I was thinking about 
Mother Wynk's tavern, where I breakfasted this morning. 

Ger, What an interesting subject! 

Peter. Rather. The old vrow worried my life out with, 
"Why don't you get married, Farmer Spyk?" — "Why do 
you live alone, in that old house, like an owl in an ivy- 



THE LOAN OF A LOVEB. 187 

bush?" — "Why don't you take a wife — you've got money 
enough to keep one, and you are your own master; you've 
only to please yourself." 

Gee. Well, and haven't I told you so over and over 
again? 

Petek. Well, so you have; and I do think, if I should 
get the Appledoorn farm, I'll sign a lease and a contract 
the same day. 

Gee. But, if you don't get the farm, what does it sig- 
nify? You might marry all the same for that. You've 
enough without. You needn't wait; that is, if you like 
anybody well enough to marry them. 

Petek. Ah, but then I don't know that I do. Now who 
is there, in your oi3inion, that would suit me? 

Gee. Oh, I don't know. I dare say, if I were to choose, 
I could name somebody. 

Petek. Well, but let's see, now. To begin with the 
neighborhood: I know all the girls here, and I am sure I 
can't say. [Suddenly.) What d'ye think of Mary Moer- 
dyke, to begin with? 

Gee. Very bad to begin with, and much better to have 
done with as soon as possible. She is the worst-tempered 
girl in all Utrecht, and as tall as the tower yonder; a 
great gawky, sulky thing, just like it. 

Petee. A'ii, well, I don't think she would suit me, cer- 
tainly. But there's her cousin, Judith; she's very good- 
natured? 

Ger. Ah, Judith's a pretty girl, if you please, and vevy 
good-natured, as you say; perhaps a little too good- 
natured. 

Petek. No, really— humph! I shouldn't like that. What 
do you say to Annie Stein? 

Gee. Everybody says she's a great coquette. See her 
on a Sunday, that's all! or at a dance at the fair! She's 
always changing her partner. 



188 THE LOAN OF A LOVER. 

Peter. Oh, if she's always changing her partner — well, 
they can't say that of little Barbara? 

Ger. No, because she's lame, and can't dance at all! 

Peter. That's very true; poor thing, she's lame, so she 
is. Well, I declare, then, Yrow Wynk herself? 

Ger. Old enough to be your grandmother. 

Peter. And Rachel, her daughter? 

Ger. She's engaged to young Maurice. 

Peter. The devil! Then I must go farther afield, for 
there's nobody else that I know of in this place. 

Ger. (aside). Oh, dear! oh, dear! how blind he is, to be 
sure ! 

Peter. Ah, stop! What a fool I am, never to have re- 
membered 

Ger. Well, who— what? 

Peter. Why, that to-morrow will be market-day here, 
and that there'll be plenty of pretty girls from all the vil- 
lages round about; so I can choose without the trouble of 
a journey. 

Dutch Air. 

Peter. 

To-morrow will be market-day, 
The streets all thronged with lasses gay, 
And from a crowd so great, no doubt, 
Sweethearts enough I may pick out. 
In verity, verity, etc. 

Gertrude. 

Be not too bold, for hearts fresh caught 
Are ne'er, I'm told, to market brought; 
The best, they say, are given away, 
Nor left to sell on market day. 
In verity, verity, etc. 

Peter. Well, at any rate, I'll take my chance of to- 
morrow. But yonder's mamzeile and some of the gentle- 



THE LOAN OF A LOYEK. 189 

folks, so I'll go and hear what the steward has done for 
me. Good-by, Gertrude. I say, mind, if you can find 
me a nice little, good-tempered wife, I'll make you a pres- 
ent the day I'm married, and you shall dance at the wed- 
ding. (Exit, e. 

Gee. Now, isn't it provoking? He can think of every- 
body but me; and unless I were to say to him, plump, 
1 'Peter, will you marry me?" and then, if he should say, 
"No!" oh, I should die with shame and disappointment. 
Oh. dear! oh, dear! how vexatious it is! And it's not 
only Peter, but nobody seems tu think me worth marrying 
at all— nobody ever says a civil thing to me of any sort. I 
never had a sweetheart in my life, and I do believe that's the 
reason. If I only had one to begin with, I shouldn't won- 
der if they swarmed afterward! 

SONG. 

"A Temple to Friendship." 

I'm sure I'm not ugly! I'm only just twenty — 
I know I should make a most excellent wife; 

The girls all around me have lovers in plenty, 
But I not a sweetheart can get for my life! 

It isn't because 1 am not worth a penny, 
For lasses as poor I've known dozens to win; 

That I should have none, and the others so many, 
I vow and declare it's a shame and a sin ! 

[Retires up the stage, sobbing, r. 

Enter Eenestjne and Captain Amebsfort, l. 

Aateesfoet. Why, you proposed the ride yourself, 
Ernestine. 
Ernestine. Perhaps I did, but I've changed my mind. 
Amee. Will you walk, then? 
Ebn. It's too hot. 
Amee. By the side of the canal — under the trees. 



190 THE LOAN OF A LOVER. 

Ern. By the side of the canal? I wonder you don't 
propose I should tow the passage boat! 

Amer. I shouldn't wonder if you proposed something 
equally extravagant. For myself, I have done; I shall 
suggest nothing else. Please yourself, if possible, and 
you will please me. 

Ern. Now he's out of humor. 

Amer. No, not out of humor, but you are the most 
capricious creature! 

Ern. Well, well, sir, if you are tired of your allegiance, 
renounce it at once. I have plenty of slaves at my foot- 
stool, who will serve me with oriental obedience. 

Amer, (r.) If they really loved you, they would not en- 
courage you in your follies. 

Ern. (c.) My follies? How dare you talk to me of my fol- 
lies, sir? Hold your tongue! Hold your tongue, directly! 
There's Gertrude, and I want to speak to her. Gertrude! 

[Calling. 

Ger. (l.) Yes, mamzelle. [Drying her eyes. 

Ern. What's the matter, Gertrude? you've been cry- 
ing. 

Ger. (l.) Yes, mamzelle. 

Ern. And what for? Has any one vexed you? some 
faithless swain, perhaps. 

Ger. Oh, dear, no, mamzelle. I wish it was, but that's 
not possible! [Bursts out afresh.) 

Ern. How d'ye mean — not possible, child? 

Ger. Because I haven't got a swain of any sort. 

Ern. Bless the girl! What, no sweetheart, at your 
age? 

Ger. No, mamzelle. 

Ern. Then perhaps that's what you're crying about? 

Ger. Yes, mamzelle. 

Ern. Silly wench! you ought to rejoice at it rather; the 
men are nothing but plagues, Gertrude. Lovers, indeed! 
there's not one worth having. 



THE LOAN OF A LOVER. 191 

Ger. I — I wish I had one, though, just to try. I was 
just saving to myself, it was a shame that some young 
women should have a score, and others none at ail. 

Amer. The girl is right enough there. It is a shame 
that some young women should have a score, and hold 
out equal hoj^es to all. 

Ern. The sooner you lessen the number of mine, the 
better, then. I could manage to spare even the gallant 
Captain Amersfort, and — a capital thought! as you seem 
so concerned at the unequal division, 111 transfer you to 
Gertrude. 

Ger. Law, mamzelle, you don't say so! "Will you, 
really? 

Amer. Ernestine! "What folly! 

Ern. I'm quite serious. As you have no admirer, Ger- 
trude, and I have so many, I'll give you one of mine. 

Ger. Oh, but I don't want you to give me one, mam- 
zelle. If you'll only lend me a beau — just to encourage 
the others. 

Ern. Ha, ha, ha! delightful! That's better still!— you 
hear, sir; I am not to give you up altogether, though you 
deserve it; I shall only try your obedience! We com- 
mand you, therefore, on pain of our sovereign displeasure, 
to pay all proper attentions to our handmaid, Gertrude; 
you are her beau till further notice. 

Amer. Eroestine, are you mad? 

Ern. Mad or not, you will obey me, or take the con- 
sequences. I won't be charged with folly and extrava- 
gance for nothing. [Aside.) Eemember, I have promised 
my father to decide this day in favor of somebodv. If 
you hesitate only, you are excluded from all chance. 
(Aloud.) Gertrude, I lend you a beau, on your personal 
security, mind. 

Ger. Oh, you needn't be afraid, mamzelle — I'll take the 
greatest care of him — and besides 



192 THE LOAN OF A LOVER. 

Dutch Air. 
Geetrtjde. 

Think not I the heart would keep, 

I'm content to borrow; 
See if I don't have a heap 

To pay it from to-morrow. 
Money, money makes, they say; 

The job is to get any; 
And lovers grow — so money may 

Eknestine. 
Oh, yes; one fool makes many. 

Ern. [to Amersfort). One step, and you lose me forever. 

[Exit 

Amee. [to himself). This passes everything. I am a fool, 
indeed, and love her like a fool, or I would never bear 

Gee. Only think! I've got a beau at last — and such a 
bean! an officer — a fine young, handsome officer! What'll 
Peter say to that? 

Amee. And while I thus humor her caprices, she returns 
to the house to flirt with that puppy, Amstell, or that 
booby, Blankenburg. 

Gee. But he takes no more notice of me than Peter him- 
self. 

Amee. I will not endure it. I will follow her, and 

Gee, Stop! stop! you mustn't run away — you're only 
lent to me, you know; and if I should lose ycu, there'll be 
a pretty business! 

Amee. [Laughing in spite of himself.) Upon my word, 
this is too ridiculous! So you really look upon me as a 
loan, do you? 

Gee. Yes, and I don't choose to be left alone. My 
stars! Peter could do that. 

Amee. Peter! who's Peter? I thought you said you 
hadn't a sweetheart in the world. 



THE LOAN OF A LOYEB. 193 

Gee. Nor have I. 

Amee. Come, come, no fibs! You've betrayed yourself. 
This said Peter — isn't he a sweetheart? 

Gee. No, I don't think he is — at least, I don't know. 
What do you call a sweetheart — one whom you love, or 
one who loves you? 

Amee. One who loves you, of course. 

Gee. Well, then, I'm right; he is not my sweetheart; 
but I am his, for I love him dearly. 

Amee. What a candid little soul! And so you really 
love Peter dearly, though Peter doesn't love you? But 
are you sure he doesn't love you? 

Gee. I don't believe he ever thought about it. 

Amee. Is it possible? Why, you are very pretty. 
(Aside.) Upon my soul, she is uncommonly pretty. I 
wonder I never noticed her before. (Aloud.) And so Peter 
has never thought about you? 

Gee. No 

SONG. 

"Faut V Oilier." 

I've no money; so, you see, 
Peter never thinks of me — 

I own it to my sorrow! 
Oh, could I grow rich, and he 
Be reduced to poverty, 
What sweet revenge 'twould be for me 

To marry him to-morrow! 
Peter's thought almost a fool, 
You have profited by school — 

Wit from you folks borrow ! 
Peter's plain — you handsome, gay; 
But if you were both to say — 
"Will yon have me, Gertrude, pray?" 

I'd marry him to-morrow! 

Amee. There's love! — there's devotion! What charming* 



194 THE LOAN OF A LOVER. 

frankness! — what innocent enthusiasm! By Jove! if she 
wasn't so fond of another, I should be almost tempted — if 
it were only to punish Ernestine! I—I — [aloud) Confound 
that Peter! Almost a fool — he must be a downright idiot 
not to fall head over ears in love with such a sweet, dear, 
bewitching — [catching her round the waist; he is about to kiss 
her as Peter Spyk enters with Swyzel.) 

Swy. I beg your pardon, captain, [both stop short — Peter 
staring at Gertrude.) 

Ger. [aside). Oh, lud, there is Peter. 

Amer. What the devil do you want? 

Swy. Only to introduce Peter .Spyk — an honest young 
farmer — who desires to be your honor's tenant. 

Amer. Peter Spyk! What, is this the Peter? 

Ger. Yes, that's Peter Spyk; and he wants to rent your 
farm of Appledoorn: and I am sure you can't do better 
than to let him have it, for he's as good a farmer, and as 
honest a young man 

Amer. If you interest yourself for him, my dear Ger- 
trude, that is sufficient, [aside to Swyzel) Swyzel, come 
here — I am much interested about this girl! I've taken a 
great fancy to her! 

Swy. What, to our Gertrude? — to that poor, simple 
thing? Well, I thought just now you seemed rather — eh? 
You're a terrible man, captain! What will mamzelle say? 

Amer. Oh, it's all in pure friendship, I assure you; but 
come this way, and tell me all you know about her. 
[aloud to Peter) I'll speak to you presently, young man. 
(Amersfort and Swyzel enter the summer-house, r. s. e.) 

Ger. Peter, you'll have the farm! 

Peter. No, shall I, though? Well, I thought he said 
something like it; and because you asked him, too! I say, 
you and he seem great friends — he'd got his arm around 
your waist! 

Ger. Had he? — oh, yes, I believe he had. 

Peter. Well, now, I've known you ever since you were 



THE LOAN OF A LOVER. 195 

that high, and I'm sure I never put my arm round your 
waist! 

Ger. No, that you never did! But them he's my sweet- 
heart! 

Peter. Your sweetheart? — yours? What, the Captain? 
Pshaw! you're joking! 

Ger. Joking!— indeed I'm not joking! What is there so 
strange in it, pray? ^ 

Peter. Why, in the first place he's mamzelle's sweet- 
heart! 

Ger. Not now. 

Peter. What, has he left her for you? Why, what can 
a rich officer like that see in a poor servant girl? 

Ger. Don't be a brute, Peter! If you can't see anything 
to like in me, it's no reason that others should not. 

Peter. Me! — oh, that's a different affair; because you 
and I, you know, there's no such difference between us, 
and — oh, by the by, talking of that — I've been thinking 
of what you said to me, and I won't wait any longer — not 
even till to-morrow — I've fixed on Annie Stein. Her mother 
was here just now, on some business with old Swyzel, and 
something was dropped about my having the Appledoorn 
farm; and Swyzel says, she gave him a hint that her 
daughter Anne was very fond of me, and that decided me 
at once. 

Ger. It did? 

Peter. Oh, yes; because, where a woman is really fond 
of one, you know — So directly I've settled with the Captain 
about the farm, I'll post off to Widow Stein's, and — well, 
what's the matter with you, Gertrude? Why, you are 
crying! 

Ger. Nothing — nothing! I wish you may be happy — 
that's all, Peter. 

Peter. Thank ye — thank ye! It's very kind of you to 
cry for joy about me, I'm sure — and I won't forget my 
promise. 



196 THE LOAN OF A LOVER. 

Re-enter Amersfort and Swyzel from the summer-house, 

R. S. E. 

Swy. You can't be in earnest, Captain? 

Amer. I tell yon, there it is, in black and white! Put a 
wafer in that [giving a note) and send it immediately to my 
lawyer's, as directed. 

Swy. Two thousand crowns to portion off a wench like 
that. 'Gad, she won't want a husband long. [Exit, R. 

Amer. (to Peter). Now for you, farmer. I find there 
are writing materials in the summer-house, so we can 

Ger. Stop! stop! — one word. ^ 

Amer. What is it? 

Ger. (leading him apart from Peter). You are my beau, 
you know, and you're to do everything Ibid you! 

Amer. Of course. 

Ger. Well, then, I bid you refuse the farm to Peter 
Spyk! 

Amer. Eefuse! Why, I thought you said 

Ger. It doesn't signify what I said! I've changed my 
mind! I suppose I may do that as well as your fine ladies! 
You're to obey me! Mamzelle Ernestine said so, and I 
don't choose you shall let Peter have the farm! (speaking 
the last five words loud enough- for Peter to hear.) 

Peter (aside). "Let Peter have the farm!" Gad, she's 
giving me a famous lift with the captain. 

Amer, Well, if you don't choose, he sha'n'fc have it, cer- 
tainly; and I'm not sorry, for I don't think he deserves it. 
And now listen to me. I mean to help you to a good hus- 
band, and in return, you must assist me in a little plot. I 
can't stay to tell you now; but meet me in half an hour's 
time at the sun-dial yonder. May I depend upon you? 

Ger. That you may. 

Amer. Enough! Now, (crosses, l.) Master Peter Spyk, 
follow me. There's no occasion for writing; we can settle 
this business in two words. 



THE LOAN OF A LOVER. 197 

Peter (aside). The farm's mine! (to Gertrude) I owe 
you a good turn for this. [Exit with Amersfort, l. 

Ger. Indeed you do. If Annie Stein marries him now, 
I'm mistaken in the family altogether. 

Re-enter Swyzel, r. 

kSwy. I've sent Delve with the note; but I've made up 
my mind. I'm not a young man, certainly; and I Lad no 
idea of changing my situation; but two thousand crowns 
will suit me as well as any body in the world, and so here 
goes— there's nothing like being first in the field, (aloud) 
Gertrude! Gertrude! — come hither, Gertrude; I want to 
say a word to you in private! 

Ger. To me, Master Steward? (aside) Oh, dear, now he's 
going to scold me for something, I'm sure. A cross old 
patch ! 

Swt. Come here, I tell you! Nearer — don't be afraid — 
I'm going to propose something for your good, my dear! 

Ger. (aside). "My dear!" Bless me, how kind he's 
grown all of a sudden! 

Swt. I've known you a long while, Gertrude — from your 
cradle, in fact. I knew your poor dear father and mother, 
and I always had a great affection for you! 

Ger. You, Mynheer Swyzel? I'm sure you never showed 
it, then. 

Swy. May be not — may be not! I was afraid of spoiling 
you as a child; but now, you know, you are grown up, 
and very nicely you have grown up — I see it more and 
more every day — and, in short, Gertrude, I've been think- 
ing that, as I am a bachelor, I couldn't do better than 
marry a good, pretty girl like you, whose character and 
temper I have watched the growth of from an infant. 

Ger. You — you, Mynheer Swyzel, marry me? 

Swy. Why not — why not? — if you have no objection. 
I'm only fifty-five, and a hale, hearty man for that age. I 
have saved some money in the service, and ■« 



198 THE LOAN OF A LOVER, 

Gee. But I haven't a doit in the wor\&! 

Swe. Nay — nay! — you are richer than you think for! 

Gee. Eh? 

Swy. In charms — in youth and beauty! 

Gee. [aside). So — so! here's a real, downright sweet- 
heart at last!— and old Swyzel, too, of all men in the world! 
t shall die of laughing! 

Swr. [aside). She's silent! — she hesitates! The two 
thousand crowns are mine! 

Dutch Air. 

Swyzel. 

My ears with sweet contentment bless! 

Geeteude [aside). 
The moon must sure, be about full! 
[aloud) I don't say no — I don't say yes. 

Swyzel. 
Alack that's rather doubtful! 
Geeteude. 

What proofs have I you mean me fair? 
Your sex is of deceit, throughout, full. 
Swyzel. 
Upon my honor, I declare! 
Geeteude. 
Alack that's rather doubtful! 

Gee. [aside). Here's Peter coming back. If I could 
manage — [aloud) Besides, that isn't the way to swear you 
.love a body — you should go down on your knees! 

Swy. There! — there, then! [kneels) Charming Gertrude, 
on my knees I swear eternal love and constancy! 

Enter Petee, l. 

Petee. Halloo! — why, Mynheer Swyzel, what are you 
doing there? 



THE LOAN OF A LOVER. 199 

Swy. (scrambling up). Confusion! (aloud) I — nothing — 
only kneeling to — (aside to Gertrude) Don't say nothing 
to that fool. Come to my room as soon as you've got rid 
of him. [Exit, r. 

Ger. You here again, Peter? 

Peter. Here again! — I believe I am, too; and just as I 
went away. Would you believe it? — Captain Amersfort 
won't let me have the farm after all. 

Ger. Dear me! — you don't say so? 

Peter. He wouldn't hear a word; and, to make matters 
worse, old Widow Stein, who saw me talking to him, 
waited to hear the upshot; and, when I told her, she as 
good as gave me to understand that I wasn't match enough 
for her daughter, and that Annie herself liked Groot, the 
miller, much better than she did mei A coquette! — you 
said she was a coquette! — and you were quite right. I 
don't know how it is, but you're always right! — you've got 
more sense than all of 'em put together; and, for the mat- 
ter of looks, why there's the captain's vows — and, talking 
of vows, what was old Swyzel about on his knees? I do 
believe he was vowing, too? 

Ger. Between you and me, he was vowing all sorts of 
love to me! — and he wants me to marry him! 

Peter. Marry him! — marry old Swyzel! — and will you? 

Ger. I don't know! — what do you think? Would you 
like me to marry him, Peter? 

Peter. Not at all! I don't know how it is, but I can't 
fancy your marrying anybody— that is, I never thought of 
your marrying anybody; and, now I think of it, I think 

Ger. Well— what? 

Enter Delve, with a note, R. 

Delve, Oh, Gertrude, here you are; here's a note for 
you. It's very particular — they gave me a florin to run all 
the way ! 

Ger. A note for me?— -who is it from? 



200 THE LOAN OF A LOVER. 

Delve, The clerk at Van Nickem's, the lawyer. I took 
a letter there for the captain, and, as his master wasn't at 
home, the clerk opened it, and wrote this answer to the 
captain, and then scribbled that for yon, and begged me 
to give you yours first — and so I have; and now I must 
find the captain. [Exit, r. 

Ger. A note for me? Nobody ever wrote to me before; 
and, if they had, it would have been no use, for I can't 
read written hand. You can, Peter; so pray open it, and 
let's hear what it's all about. 

Peter, (opening and reading). "Mamzelle" Mamzelle, 
to you! 

Ger. Go on — go on. 

Peter. "I have loved you above all earthly beings !" 

Ger. Bless us, and save us! 

Peter. "I dared not disclose my passion; but, believe 
me, my affection was equal to my silence." 

Ger. Then it was great indeed! 

Peter. "I have at length summoned courage to address 
yon, and if the offer of my hand and fortune" — another 
proposal! — who is the fellow that writes this? 

Ger. Van Nickem's clerk, Delve told you. 

Peter. Yes; here's his ugly name, sure enough, at the 
bottom of it — Simon Sneek! 

Ger. Ah! if I recollect, he's rather a good-looking young 
man. 

Peter. Why, you don't mean to 

Ger. Surely, he's better than old Swyzel! 

Peter. Well, but what does it all mean? Everybody 
wants to marry you. 

Ger. I can't help that — can I? But I sha'n't be in a 
hurry; I shall do as you do — look about me; perhaps 
somebody may offer that I should like better. (Clock 
strikes.) Hark! that's two o'clock! (Crosses, l.) And I 
promised to meet the captain at the sun-dial yonder. 
Good-by, Peter; and mind, if you can find me a hus- 



THE LOAN OF A LOVER. 201 

band that I should like better than any of these, I'll make 
you a present the day I'm married, and you shall dance at 
the wedding. [Runs out, l. 

Peter, [stands staring after her, with the open, note in his 
hand). Well, when she talks of Annie Stein always chang- 
ing her partner — she's off to meet the captain now, and 
yet she says to me, "If you can find me a husband I should 
like better;" the idea of Gertrude having a husband! — a 
little girl, that was only a baby the other day, as it seems 
to me. I wonder if she'd like me better; because if she 
would — I want a wife myself — and I don't know w r hy I 
didn't at first. But there goes that cursed captain, run- 
ning like mad to meet her. Gad, I begin to feel that I 
don't like it at all. Why can't he keep to his fine ladies, 
and let the others alone? I don't go and make love to 
Mamzelle Ernestine, do I? What business has he to talk 
a pack of stuff to Gertrude, and turn the poor girl's head? 
He'd better mind what he's about, though; I can tell him 
that! If he makes her unhappy, I wouldn't be in his 
shoes for something, for I should break every bone in my 

own skin! 

Enter Delve, r. 

Del. What's the matter, Master Peter? you don't look 
pleased. 

Peter. Well, I have been pleased better. 

Del. Anything in that note? 

Peter. This note? no. This is the note you brought 
from Van Nickem's. There's that young rogue, Sneek, 
w^ants to marry Gertrude. 

Del. To marry Gertrude? well, now, do you know, I 
think he might do worse. 

Peter. Might do worse? I believe he might, too. 

Del. Gertrude's by no means ill-looking. 

Peter. Ill-looking? she's very pretty! 

Del. Well, yes, I think she is; and very good-tempered. 

Peter. The best-humored soul in the world. 



202 THE LOAN OF A LOVER. 

• 

Del. Do you know, Master Peter, if I thought there 
was any chance of our living comfortably together, I 
shouldn't mind making up to Gertrude myself? 

Peter. You? — you be hanged! 

Del. Hanged? what for, I should like to know? I 
question, now, if I couldn't afford to marry as well as 
young Sneek; he doesn't get much out of Van Nickem's 
pocket, I'll swear. 

Peter. Well, you needn't trouble your head about it, 
because you sha'n't have her. 

Del. Why, Farmer Spyk, what have you to do with it? 
Suppose I choose, and she chooses, you're neither her 
father nor her mother. If you put my blood up, I'll go 
and ask her at once. 

Peter. And if you do, you'll put my blood up, and then 
I shall knock you down. 

Del. Knock me down? Donner and blitzen! 

Peter. Don't provoke me! I'm getting desperate — I 
mean to marry Gertrude myself, if she'll have me, and I'll 
fight anybody for her, with fists, knives, pistols — any- 
thing! 

Enter Ernestine, r. 

Ern. Heyday! heyday! what is all this noise about, and 
threat of fighting? 

Del. It's Farmer Spyk here, and please you, mamzelle, 
he threatens to knock me down, if I go a-courting to Ger- 
trude; and all in an honest way, too. I'll be hanged if I 
don't go and ask her right away! {Exit, l. 

Ern. To Gertrude? why, how long have you taken this 
fancy into your head? 

Peter. Why, not five minutes, mamzelle, and he has 
the impudence to set himself up against me, who have 
been in love with her — more than half an hour. 

Ern. And where is the fair object of your contention? 
What does she say to these sudden passions? 

Peter. I'm waiting to know what she'U say to mine— 



THE LOAN OF A LOVEB. 203 

but she's a plaguey long time with the captain. He's the 
only rival I'm afraid of; she seems dused fond of him, and 
he raves about her. 

Een. [alarmed). He does? [Recovering herself.) But, of 
course — I desired him. 

Peter. You desired him, mamzelle? 

Ern. Yes, I commanded him to make love to her. 

Peter. Well, he won't be broke for disobedience, then 
— that's all I can say — for he does make love to her most 
furiously. I caught them myself with his arm around her 
waist, this morning, and I dare say it's round it now, if 
the truth was known; but I can't see, for that beastly 
holly-bush. 

Ern. Why, where are they, then? 

Peter. She was to meet him at the sun-dial, and I saw 
him slinking through the trees yonder; and just now I'm 
almost certain I caught a glimpse of them at the end of 
that walk. 

Ern. [aside). I don't like this account; I'm afraid I've 
acted very silly. I repented of the freak almost as soon as 
I left them, but my pride would not suffer me to return. 
The girl's pretty — very pretty; and if Amersfort, enraged 
at my indifference, should, out of mere spite — such things 
have happened — oh, dear, I do not like it at all. 

Peter. There she goes! there she goes! 

Ern. With the captain? 

Peter. No, by herself; and there's Delve after her as 
hard as he can scamper! I'll follow — I'll — no, I can't— I 
can't move — I — I feel very ill — my head spins sound like 
a top. Here comes the captain! 

Ern. Amersfort? I am ready to sink! 

Peter. Don't — don't— mamzelle, for I've no strength to 

catch you! 

Enter Amersfort, l. 

Amer. [aside). She is here — now for the trial. Made- 
moiselle Ernestine, I came to seek you. 



204: THE LOAN OF A LOVEE. 

Een. Indeed, sir; and for what purpose? I thought I 
had desired you to pay your attentions in another quarter 
for the present. 

Amee. It is in perfect accordance with that desire that I 
have sought this interview. I am anxious to express my 
gratitude for the blessing which you have so unexpectedly 
bestowed on me. 

Een. What do you mean, sir? 

Amee. I mean, Mademoiselle Rosendaal, that the heart 
you treated with so much indifference has been accepted 
by one of the most lovely and amiable of your sex; and 
that, in the affection of Gertrude it has found a balm for 
all the wounds you had so wantonly inflicted on it. 

Petee. There, there! I told you so! 

Een. Upon my word, sir! and you have the assurance 
to make this confession to me? 

Amee. Why not, mademoiselle? We are not masters of 
our own affections, and therefore I will not reproach you. 
But can you be surprised that I should weary of loving 
one who did not love me? or that, stung to the quick by 
your contempt, I should be more sensible to the kindness 
and sympathy of another? Gertrude is lovely! 

Petee. She is! she is! 

Amee. The sweetest tempered — the most frank and 
affectionate of beings! 

Petee. Too true! too true! 

Amee. The possession of her heart is a blessing mon- 
arch s might envy me. 

Petee. I shall go mad! 

Amee. And monarchs have matched with maidens as 
lowly born, and far less deserving. 

Een. Enough — enough, sir! 

Petee. No, it's not enough! he can't say too much 
about her. She hasn't her equal upon earth. 

Amee. You are right, farmer; and I thank you for the 
honest warmth with which you justify my choice. 



THE LOAN OF A LOVER. 205 

Peter. Your choice? Don't touch me! 

Amer. My sweet bride — my affianced wife — Madame 
Amersfort will thank you in person. 

Peter. His wife! Madame Amersfort! Cruel, faithless 
Gertrude! 

Amer. Faithless? why, did you ever propose to her? 

Peter. No, but I meant to do so. Oh, dear! 

Ern. Your wife — your wife? And you really intend to 
marry this orphan girl? 

Amer. I have desired my lawyer to prepare her marriage 
contract, which shall be signed this evening. 

Peter. Oh! 

Ern. Not in this house, sir! I will not be insulted to 
that extent. I go this moment to inform my father! 

Amer. The Baron Van Eosendaal is already informed; 
and approves of my intentions. 

Ern. Approves? We shall see, sir, we shall see! 

Ajx.—(Fro?n "TJie Challenge") 

Ernestine. 

Such perfidy never was known, 
I joy in its unmasking! 

Peter. 

Oh, Gertrude, you've a heart of stone, 
To break a heart so true! 

Amersfort. 

Why, had she promised you? 

Peter. 

No, there's her falsehood shown! 
So bent was she on jilting me, 
She could not wait for asking. 

Amersfort. 

Well, there with you I must agree, 



206 THE LOAN OF A LOVER. 

Such falsehood ne'er was known; 
I'm sure with me you must agree, 
Such falsehood ne'er was known. 

Ernestine. 

'Tis well, 'tis well, sir; we shall see — 

Such falsehood ne'er was known. [Exit, r. 

Amer. (aside). Yes, yes, my fair tyrant, your father is in 
the plot; I think we have you now. (Aloud). Well, my 
good friend, I must say I pity you extremely; you have 
lost a model of a wife. 

Peter. Don't! don't! 

Amer. But where is she? where is my adored Ger- 
trude? 

Enter Gertrude, l. s. e., dressed as a bride. Amersfort 
makes signs to her not to speak, and points to Peter, who 
stands in an attitude of comic despair, with his back toward 
them. 

I must hasten to find her. I cannot bear to be an instant 
from her sight. Oh, Peter, Peter! what a treasure has es- 
caped you! (Exit, r., exchanging signs with Gertrude. 

Peter (soliloquizing). Escaped me! as if it were a mad 
dog, and it was an escape for Gertrude! An escape! and 
I have let her escape! Well, well, she won't be Madame 
Swyzel, or Madame Sneek; and that rascal Delve hasn't 
got her, that's one comfort. Comfort? I talk of comfort! 
I shall never know comfort again! Oh, Gertrude! Ger- 
trude! 

Ger. (advancing, r.). Did you call me, Peter? 

Peter. Ha! what do I see? There's a dress — a wedding- 
dress! It is! it is! 

Ger. It is, it is a beautiful dress, as you say, and I don't 
wonder you start to see me in such a dress; but as the 
bride of the captain, you know 

Peter, (l.) It is true, then, you are going — going to 
marry Captain Amersfort? 



THE LOAN OF A LOVER. 207 

Ger. Ah, he has told you, then? Weil, I was in hopes 
of giving you an agreeable surprise. 

Peter. An agreeable surprise? 

Gek. Why, are you not delighted, Peter, at my good 
fortune? 

Peter. Delighted? 

Ger. Only think! a poor orphan girl like me, whom no- 
body loved, and nobody cared about 

Peter. It isn't true! I cared about you — I doted on 
you! 

Ger. You, Peter, you? Mercy on me! And why didn't 
you tell me so, then? 

Peter. Because I didn't know it myself, then; but I do 
now, Gertrude, I do now. 

Ger. Now? now that it is too late? 

Peter. But is it — is it too late? You are not married 
yet. 

Ger. No, but I have promised. The contract is ordered, 
and this beautiful dress was bought by the captain on 
purpose. You would not have me behave so shamefully 
to one who loves me dearly? 

Peter. But I — I love you dearly. 

Ger. Ah, if you had but said so an hour ago! But you 
thought of everybody but me. 

Peter. I know it — I know it. But then nobody thought 
of you, and now everybody does, and it proves to me that 
you — you are the only girl in the world that I ought to 
marry; and if you won't have me, I — I know what I'll do. 

Ger. Dear, me, Peter, what? 

Peter. I'll fling myself into the canal. 

Ger. Nonsense! 

Peter. You see if I don't then. I'm not desperate till I 
take anything in my head; but then nothing can turn me. 



208 THE LOAN OF A LOVER. 

AIR. — ("Take care of the corner".) 
Peter. 

I rush to my fate, 

And my funeral straight- 
Way shall follow my latest transgression, 

And in the church-yard 

It shall go very hard 
But it meets with your bridal procession; 

"When my coffin appears, 

You will melt into tears, 
And your friends in your grief will be sharers. 

Gertrude. 

Oh, yes, not only I, 
But my husband will cry — 
"Stand out of the way," to the bearers! 

Peter. Laughed at! I'll jump over the wall, here, into 
the canal, before your face. 

Ger. Indeed you sha'n't. Peter, don't be a fool, (trying 
to hold him). Oh dear, he will! Murder! help! 

Enter Ernestine, r. 

Ern. What's the matter now? 

Ger. Oh, mamzelle, help me to hold Peter. He wants 
to drown himself. 

Ern. He is sillier than ever I supposed him, if he would 
drown himself for so worthless a person. I wonder you 
are not ashamed to look me in the face. 

Ger. I'm very sorry, mamzelle. I know you only lent 
me a lover; but how can I give you him back, if he won't 
go? 

Ern. Cease your impertinence. Your simplicity is all 
affected. 

Ger. I'm sure, mamzelle, if the captain will only con- 
sent, I'll give him up with pleasure. 



THE IiOAN OF A LOVEK. 209 

Peter. You will? 

Ern. You will? Hark ye, Gertrude! Don't think that 
I care the least about Captain Ameisfort — his behavior has 
entirely destroyed any little affection I might have had for 
him; but only to vex him in my turn, if you will promise 
not to marry him 

Peter, Do, do. 

Ern. I will settle a handsome income on you. 

Peter. There! there! 

Ern. Tell him that you do not love him. 

Peter. Yes, yes. 

Erx. That you love another — anybody. 

Peter. Yes, me! I'm ready to be loved. 

Ger. (aside). I see hi ni! — now's the time, (aloud) Well, 
mamzelle, I believe it would be only the truth — I have a 
great respect for Captain Amersfort, but I certainly do not 
love him — and perhaps I do love somebody else, (looking at 
Peter. ) 

Peter. Oh, Gertrude! 

Enter Amersfort, unseen by them, e. u. e. 

Gee. But how can I consent to make him wretched? If 
there was any chance of your making it up— if I thought you 
still loved the captain, and you would make him happy in 
the avowal 

Ern. Would that decide you? 

Peter (to Ernestine). Oh, do, then — do! 

Ern. What would you have me say? 

Ger. That you forgive him, and are willing to marry 
him, if I give him up. 

Ern. Well, then, I am willing. 

Amer. (taking her hand). And so am I! 

Ger. And so am I. 

Peter. Hurrah! 

Ern. Captain Amersfort here? This was a plot, then? 



210 THE LOAN OF A LOVER. 

Amer. Own that it was to secure your happiness, Ernes- 
tine, and you make mine forever. 

Ern. Well, I believe I deserved this lesson. 

Peter. And I'm sure I did. 

Ger. You've made up your mind, then, that I shall 
marry you now? 

Peter. To be sure I have. ' 

Ger. Well, as you say, when you once do take a thing 
in your head, nothing can turn you, I suppose its useless 
to say "No." There is my hand, dear Peter. 

Amer. And I suppose I may let him have the farm now. 

Ger. If you please, captain. 

Amer. And give him the two thousand crowns thafc I 
desired Van Nickem to settle on you as a wedding portion? 

Peter. Ah! then that's why young Sneek — but no mat- 
ter. 

FINALE.— [Trio, from "The Challenge.") 

Peter, Gertrude, and Ernestine. 

tt e [ is mine, tt e [ is mine. Let the stars work their will. 

If our patrons approve, nothing now can go ill; 
But the lover we lend must with them make his way, 
Or our dealings will end with the devil to pay 

Ernestine. 
Should they not then befriend us? 

Gertrude. 

I will hope for the best, . 
If one kind friend will lend us 
His hands to move the rest. 
Will you ask? 

Peter. 
Say do you 



THE LOAN OF A LOVER. ^H 

Gertrude (to the audience). 
Do you like it? 

Peter. 
Say do yon. 

All. 

Oh, happy hour! Oh, joyous night! 
Our patrons share in our delight. 

tt [ is mine. Let the stars work their will. 

Since our friends have approved, nothing now can go ill 
The lover we lent has with them made his way, 
And their smiles of content all our toils overpay. 

Disposition of the characters at the fall of the Curtain. 

Amersfort. Ernestine. ' Gertrude. Petee 

CURTAIN. 



mUMkH THOMPSONS OLD HOMESTEAD. 

STREET & SMITH'S SELECT SERIES No. 23. 



JPrice, 35 Cents. 



Some Opinions of the Press. 

u As the probabilities are remote of the play ■ The Old Ilomescead ' being 
seen anywhere but in large cities it is only fair that the story of the piece should 
be printed. Like most stories written from plays it contains a great deal whicb 
is not said or done on the boards, yet it is no more verbose than such a story 
should be : and it gives some good pictures of the scenes and people who for a 
year or more have been delighting thousands nightly. Uncle Josh, Aunt Tildy, 
Old Cy Prime, Reuben, the mythical Bill Jones, the sheriff and all the other char- 
acters are here, beside some new ones. It is to be hoped that the book will make 
a large sale, not only on its merits, but that other play owners may feel encour- 
aged to let their works be read by the many thousands who cannot hope to see 
them on the stage."— N. Y. Herald, June 2d. 

"Denman Thompson's 'The Old Homestead' is a storyof clouds and sunshine 
alternating over a venerated home; of a grand old man, honest and blunt, who 
loves his honor as he loves his life, yet suffers the agony of the condemned in 
learning of the deplorable conduct of a wayward son; a story of country life, love 
and jealousy, without an impure thought, and with the healthy flavor of the 
fields in every chapter. It is founded on Denman Thompson s drama of 'The 
Old Homestead.' "— N. Y. Press, May 26th. 

«' Messrs. Street & Smith, publishers of the New York Weekly, have brought 
out in book-form the story of ■ The Old Homestead,' the play which, as produced 
by Mr. Denman Thompson, has met with such wondrous success. It will proba- 
bly have a great sale, thus justifying the foresight of the publishers in giving the 
drama this permanent fiction form."— N. Y. Morning Journal, June 2d. 

" The popularity of Denman Thompson's play of - The Old Homestead' has 
encouraged Street & Smith, evidently with his permission, to publish a good-sized 
novel with the same title, set in the same scenes and including the same charac- 
ters and more too. The book is a fair match for the play in the simple good taste 
and real ability with which it is written. The publishers are Street & Smith, and 
they have gotten the volume up in cheap popular form."— ^V. Y. Graphic, May 29. 

"Denman Thompson's play, 'The Old Homestead,' is familiar, at least by rep 
station, to every play-goer in the country. Its truth to nature and its simple 
pathos have been admirably preserved in this story, which is founded upon it 
and follows its incidents closely. The requirements of the stag*- make the action 
a little hurried at times, but the scenes described are brought before the mind's 
eye with remarkable vividness, and the portrayal of life in the little New Eng- 
land town is almost perfect. Those who have never seen the play can get an 
excellent idea of what it is like from the book. Both are free from sentimental^." 
aad sensation, and are remarkably healthy in tone."— Albany Express, 

•'Denman Thompson's 'Old Homestead' has been put into story -form ana is L> 
sued by Street & Smith. The story will somewhat explain to those wlio have not 
seen it the great popularity of the play."— Brooklyn Times, June 8th. 
#* "The fame of Denman Thompson's play, 'Old Homestead,' is world-wide. 
Tens of thousands have enjoyed it, and frequently recall the pure, lively pleasure 
they took in its representation. This is the story told in narrative form as well 
as it was told on the stage, and will be a treat to all, whether they have seen the 
play or not."— National Tribune, Washington, D. C. 

"Here we have the shaded lanes, the dusty roads, the hilly pastures, the 
peaked roofs, the school-house, and the familiar faces of dear old Swanzey, and 
the story which, dramatized, has packed the largest theater in New York, and 
has been a success everywhere because of its true and sympathetic touches of 
nature. All the incidents which have held audiences spell- bound are here re- 
corded—the accusation of robbery directed against the innocent boy, his shame, 
and leaving home ; the dear old Aunt Tilda, who has been courted for thirty 
years by the mendacious Cy Prime, who has never had the courage to propose; 
the fall of the country boy into the temptations of city life, and his recovery by 
the good old man who braves the metropolis to find him. The story embodies all 
that the play tells, and all that it suggests as well."— Kansas atu Journal, 




THE COUNTY FAIR. 

By NEIL BURGESS. 

Written from the celebrated play now 
running its second continuous season in 
New York, and booked to run a third sea- 
son in the same theater. 

The scenes are among the New Hamp- 
shire hills, and picture the bright side of 
country life. The story is full of amusing 
events and happy incidents, something 
after the style of our "Old Homestead," 
which is having such an enormous sale. 

" THE COUNTY FAIR" will be one 
of the great hits of the season, and should 
you fail to secure a copy you will miss a 
5^1-7 literary treat. It is a spirited romance of 
town and country, and a faithful repro- 
duction of the drama, with the same unique 
characters, the same graphic scenes, but 
with the narrative more artistically rounded, and completed than was 
possible in the brief limits of a dramatic representation. This touch- 
ing story effectively demonstrates that it is possible to produce a novel 
which is at once wholesome and interesting in every part, without the 
introduction of an impure thought or suggestion. Bead the following 

OPINIONS OF THE PRESS: 

Mr. Neil Burgess has rewritten his play, "The County Fair,"' in story form. It 
rounds out a narrative which is comparatively but sketched in the play. It only needs 
the first sentence to set going- the memory and imagination of tho^e who have seen the 
latter and whet the appetite for the rest of this lively conception of a live dramatist.— 
Brooklyn Daily Eagle. 

As "The County Fair" threatens to remain in New York for a long time the general 
public out of town may be glad to learn that the playwright has put the piece into print 
in the form of a story. A tale based upon a play may sometimes lack certain literary 
qualities, but it never is the sort of thing over which any one. can fall asleep. For- 
tunately, "The County Fair'' on the stage and in print is by the same author, so there 
can be no reason for fearing that the book misses any of the points of the drama which 
has been so successful.— A'. T. Herald. 

The idea of turning successful plays into novels seems to be getting popular. The 
latest book of this description is a story reproducing the action and incidents of Neil 
Burgess' play, "The County Fair." The tale, which is a romance based on scenes of 
home Life and domestic joys and sorrows, follows closely the hues of the drama in 
story and plot.— Chicago Daily News. 

Mr. Burgess' amusing play, "The County Fair." has been received with such favor 
that he has worked it over and expanded it into a novel of more than 200 pages. It will 
be enjoyed even by those who have never heard the play and still more by those who 
have.— Cincinnati Times-Star. 

This touching story effectively cfemonstrates that it is possible to produce a novel 
which is at once wholesome and interesting in every part, without the introduction of 
an impure thought or suggestion.— Albany Press. 

Street & Smith have issued "The County Fair." This is a faithful reproduction of 
the drama of that name and is an affecting and vivid story of domestic life, joy and 
sorrow, and rural scenes.— San Francisco Call. 

This romance is written from the play of this name and is full of touching incidents. 
—Ecansville Journal. 

It is founded on the popular play of the same name, in which Neil Burgess, who is 
also the author of the story, has achieved the dramatic success of the season.— Fall 
River Herald. 

Tlie County Fair is No. 33 of "The Select Series," for 
sale by all Newsdealers, or will be sent, on receipt of price, 25 cents, to any 
address, postpaid, by STREET & SMITH, Publishers, 25-31 Eose st., Xew York. 



Mrs. Geqrgie Sheldon's 



Copyright Novels, 



I3ST 



The Select Series. 



Price, 25 Cents Eacli, 



FULLY ILLUSTRATED. 



No. 16-SIBYL'S INFLUENCE. 

No. 24-THAT DOWDY. 

No. 43-TRIXY. 

No. 44-A TRUE ARISTOCRAT. 

These novels, from the pen of our gifted au 
thor, who writes exclusively for us, are among 
her most popular productions, and hold the front 
rank in first-class literature. 



For sale by all Booksellers and News Agents, or will be sent, post- 
paid, to any address in the United States or Canada, on receipt of 
price, 25 cents each, by 

STREET & SMITH, Publishers, 

P. O. Box 2734. 31 Rose Street, New York. 



BERTHA M. CLAY'S 



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No. 22.-A HEART'S BITTERNESS. 
No. 28.-A HEART'S IDOL. 
No. 36.-THE GIPSY'S DAUGHTER. 
No. 37.-IN LOVES CRUCIBLE. 
No. 39.-MARJORIE DEANE. 

Tnese novels are aniong tbe best ever ■writ- 
ten by BERTHA M. CLAY, and are enjoying 
an enormous sale. Tbey are copyrigbted and 
can be bad only in THE SELECT SERIES. 



For sale by ail Booksellers and News Agents, or will be sent, post- 
paid, to any address in the United States or Canada, on receipt of 
price, 25 cents each, by 

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A STORY OF POWER AND PATHOS. 



THE SENATOR'S BRIDE. 

By Mrs. ALEX. McVEIGH MILLER, 

Author of "Brunette and Blonde," "Lady Gray's Pride," sto. 



This is a domestic story of deep interest, charmingly written, 
with vigor and earnestness, and has not a dull scene in it. The 
author's purpose is to portray nature ; she therefore avoids all 
extravagance, and relies entirely upon her ability to entertain 
her readers with the presentation of scenes and incidents that 
never surpass probability, yet are extremely captivating. 

The story of "The Senator's Bride" is something more than 
a work of fiction. It contains a moral that is certain to be im- 
Dressed upon all who follow the career of the wife who wrecked 
lei* happiness because she respected herself too much to deceive 
ler husband. 



PRICE, TWENT1T-FIVE CENTS. 

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Xi^itost Issues. 



No. 37-IN LOYE'S CRUCIBLE, by Bertha M. Clay. 

No. 36-THE GIPSY'S DAUGHTER, by Bertha M. Clay. 

No. 85-CECILE'S MARRIAGE, by Lucy Randall Comfort, 

No, 31— THE LITTLE WIDOW, by Julia Edwards. 

No. 33— THE COUNTY FAIR, by Neil Burgess. 

No. 32-LADY RYHOPE'S LOYER, by Emma Garrison Jones. 

No. 31— MARRIED FOR GOLD, by Mrs. E. Burke Collins. 

No. 30- PRETTIEST OF ALL, by Julia Edwards. 

No. 29— THE HEIRESS 0FEGRE3I0NT, by Mrs. Harriet Lewis. 

No. 28— A HEART'S IDOL, by Bertha M. Clay. 

No. 2 7 -WINIFRED, by Mary Kyle Dallas. 

No. 26-FONTELROY, by Francis A. Durivage. 

No. 25-THE KING'S TALISMAN, by Sylvanus Cobb, Jr. 

No. 21— THAT DOWDY, by Mrs. Georgie Sheldon. 

No. 23-DEN3IAN THOMPSON'S OLD HOMESTEAD. 

No. 22-A HEART'S BITTERNESS, by Bertha 31. Clay. 

No. 21-THE LOST BRIDE, by Clara Augusta. 

No. 20-ING03IAR, by Nathan D. Urner. 

No. 19-A LATE REPENTANCE, by Mrs. Mary A. Denison. 

No. 18— R0SA3I0ND, by Mrs. Alex. 3IcYeigh 3IHler. 

No. 17-THE HOUSE 0<F SECRETS, by 3Irs. Harriet Lewis. 

No. 16-SIBYL'S INFLUENCE, by Mrs. Georgie Sheldon. 

Xo. 15-THE VIRGINIA HEIRESS, by May Agnes Fleming. 

No. 11-FLOREXCE FALKLAND, by Burke Brentford. 

No. 13 -THE BRIDE ELECT, by Annie Ashmore. 

No. 12-THE PHANT03I WIFE, by 31rs. 31. V. Yictor. 

No. 11-BADLY MATCHED, by Helen Corwin Pierce. 

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nr PHH 

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An Entrancing Emotional Story, 



By BERTHA M. CLAY. 



No. I of the Primrose Edition of Copyright Novels, 



Olotli. Price, $1. 



SOME OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 

Messrs. Street & Smith, New York, begin anew series of novels— "The 
Primrose Library"— with "Another Man's Wife," by Bertha M. Clay. The 
story has enough plot to keep one from falling asleep over it, and it also in- 
dicates the stumbling-blocks and pitfalls which abound everywhere for 
young husbands and wives who think so much about having "a good time" 
that they have no time left in which to think about reputation and 
character.— N. T. Herald, Sept. 10. 

Street & Smith publish the American copyright novel, "Another Man's 
Wife," by Bertha M. Clay. It deals with certain corrupting influences of 
fashionable society, and impressively warns of the dangers that spring 
from them. Its plot is strong and dramatic, and is elaborated witli all or 
the qualities of style that have made the author so popular. It is the first 
issue of the new Primrose Series.— Boston Globe, Sept. 16. 

"Another Man's Wife," by Bertha M. Clay, Street & Smith's Primrose 
Series, is a laudable effort toward the repression of the growing evil of 
matrimonial disloyalty. The book is handsomely bound, with a holiday 
look about it. — Brooklyn Eagle, Sept. 15. 

Street & Smith of New York publish in cloth cover "Another Man's 
Wife," by Bertha M. Clay. The story is effective. It impressively depicts 
the results certain to attend the sins of deception. It teaches a lesson that 
will not be lost upon those thoughtless men and women who, only intent 
upon pleasure, little dream of the pitfall before them, and to which they are 
blind until exposure wrecks happiness.— Troy (N. Y.) Press. 

Street & Smith, New York, have brought out in book-form "Another 
Man's Wife." This is one of Bertha M. Clay's most effective stories.— 
Cincinnati Enquirer. 

"Another Man's Wife." This is one of Bertha M. Clay's most effective 
stories. It forcibly and impressibly portrays the evils certain to attend 
matrimonial deceit, clandestine interviews, and all the tricks and devices 
which imperil a wife's honor. It has a novel and entrancingly interesting 
plot, and abounds in vivid and dramatic incidents. It is the first issue of 
Street & Smith's Primrose Edition of Copyright Novels, and will not appear 
elsewhere. — Franklin Freem an. 



WOMEN'S SECRETS 



The public are at last permitted to take a peep into the 
wonderful and mysterious art of 

"HOW TO BE BEAUTIFUL." 

We will soon become a nation of Beauty. Read how, in the table of 
CONTENTS : 

THE VALUE OF PERSONAL BEAUTY.— This chapter relates to the beauty 

in "Genius," "Strength," "Religion," "Poetry," and "Chivalry." 
THE HISTORY OF BEAUTY.— Mode of acquiring it by the people of different 

nations. What people are the most beautiful? 
VARIOUS STANDARDS OF BEAUTY.— Tastes of civilized and uncivilized 

people. The French definition of beautv. 
THE BEST STANDARD OF BEAUTY.— Defines the Head, Hair, Eyes, Cheeks, 

Ears, Nose, Mouth, Bosom, Limbs, and in fact every part of the human form. 
HOW TO RAISE BEAUTIFUL CHILDREN.— To newly married people, and 

those who contemplate entering the conjugal state, this chapter alone is 

well worth the price of the book. 
HOW TO BE BEAUTIFUL.— This chapter is full of information, as it not only 

tells how to beautify every part of the form and.features. but gives recipes 

and cures for all the ailments which tend to mar or blemish. 
BEAUTY SLEEP.— To be beautiful it is not necessary to be like the bird that 

seeks its nest at sunset and goes forth again at sunrise. You will here find 

the required time to be spent in bed, the positions most conducive to health. 

facts regarding ventilation, bed-clothes, adornments, and other useful hints. 
BEAUTY FOOD.— Instructs how, when, and where to eat, and also treats of 

Digestion, Complexion, Foods which color the skin, etc. 
HOW TO BE FAT.— The information imparted in this chapter will be aY,^ou to 

thin, delicate women, as it tells what to eat and what to avoid, also what to 

drink and how to dress when plumpness is desirable. 
HOW TO BE LEAN.— If corpulent women will carefully follow the instructions 

herein, they will be happy and enjoy life. 
BEAUTY BATHING AND EXERCISE.— This chapter is intended for every 

one to read and profit by. There is no truer saying than "Cleanliness is next 

to Godliness." 
EFFECTS OF MENTAL EMOTIONS ON BEAUTY.-After you read this, we 

feel safe in saying that you will not give way to anger, surprise, fright, grief, 

vexation, etc., but will k at all times strive to be cheerful and make the best 

of life. 
HOW BEAUTY IS DESTROYED.— The women are warned in this chapter 

against 'quack doctors and their nostrums, the dangers of overdosing, and 

irregular habits. 
HOW TO REMAIN BEAUTIFUL.— It is just as easy for those that are beauti- 
ful to remain so as to allow themselves to fade away like a flower which 

only blooms for a season. 
HOW TO ACQUIRE GRACE AND STYLE.— Without grace and style beauty 

is lost. They are as essential as a beautiful face. To walk ungracefully or 

awkwardly is not only vulgar but detrimental to the health. 
THE LANGUAGE OF BEAUTY.— This chapter will enable you to read a per- 
son and learn his or her character, without the use of a phrenological chart 
CORSETS.- When and what kind should be worn. How they were originated 

and by whom. 
CYCLING.— The latest craze for ladies is fully described in this chapter. 



WOMEN'S SECRETS ; or, How to be Beautiful 

THE BEST SELLING BOOK OF THE DAY. 

JTixst Out. IPrice 25 Cents. 

For Sale by all Newsdealers* 

STREET & SMITH, Publishers, 

31 Rose Street* 



BEN HAMED; 

OR, 

THE CHILDREN OF FATE. 



By SYLVANUS COBB, Jr. 



Street & Smith's Sea and Shore Series, No.8. 

Price, 25 Oeiits?. 
WHAT THE PRESS SAT OF IT. 

•'Ben Hamed" is an Oriental romance by Sylvanus Cobb, which recalls 
the delightful stories of the "Arabian Nights," without their supernatural 
effects. Indeed, our old friend Haroun Al Raschid figures prominently in 
this work, and is closely identified with the hero and "heroine— the devoted 
Assad and the fair Morgiana. It is a romance of pure love, with an in- 
genious and cleverly sustained plot.— Grand Rapids Democrat, Aug. .i. 

"Ben Hamed" is the title of an Oriental romance not unlike the stories of 
the "Arabian Nights." It is a romance of pure love. A number of strong 
characters combine with the hero and heroine in the solution of an ingenious 
plot.— Harrisburg Patriot, July 23. 

Street & Smith of New York have published "Ben Hamed ; or, The Chil- 
dren of Fate," by Sylvanus Cobb, Jr., which is No. 8 of the Sea and Shore 
Series. This book is an Oriental romance, which recalls the "Arabian 
Nights," without their supernatural effects. The plot is ingenious and well 
sustained, and brings out a romance of pure love in a charming manner.— 
—San Francisco Morning Call, July 21. 

"Ben Hamed" is an Oriental romance by Sylvanus Cobb, Jr., published in 
paper by Street & Smith, New York city. It is clever in the way that all of 
Cobb's stories are clever.— Indianapolis News, July 20. 

"Ben Hamed is a capital story, progressive in action, interesting from 
the opening line, and with a charming love romance, on which are strung 
many remarkable incidents.— Acton Star, July 21. 

A capital story of Eastern life, which must have been suggested by a 
perusal of the "Arabian Nights," is Sylvanus Cobb's Oriental narrative of 
*'Ben Hamed; or. The Children of Fate." It is admirably told, full of in- 
terest, and cannot fail to charm all who begin its perusal. — Montana 
Sim, Sept. 22. 

Street & Smith, of the New York Weekly, have published "Ben 
Hamed; or, The Children of Fate," by Sylvanus Cobb, Jr. This is an 
Oriental romance, accentuated by a very strong and ingenious plot.— Sc. 
Paul Pioneer Press, July 21 . 

Street & Smith, New York, publish in paper covers "Ben Hamed," an 
Oriental romance, by Sylvanus Cobb, which recalls the delightful stories of 
the "Arabian Nights," without their supernatural effects." — Cincinnati 
inquirer. 

"Ben Hamed," an Oriental romance, by Sylvanus Cobb, is published by 
Street & Smith, New York. It is one of Cobb's characteristic romances, 
Haroun Al Raschid being a prominent figure. There is nothing strained or 
unnatural in "Ben Hamed," it recalling the stories of the "Arabian Nights," 
without their supernatural effects.— Minneapolis Tribune, July 21. 



TBI SEA Al SHORE SERIES 



OF 



POPULAR AMERICAN COPYRIGHT NOVELS 

BY NOTABLE AUTHORS. 



.. nHj Li 



KITH OF LYONS j 



OR, 



THE WEAVER'S WAR. 



By PROFESSOR WM. HENRY PECK, 



AUTHOR OF 



"Marlin Marduke," "£15,000 Reward," "Siballa, 
the Sorceress," etc. 



From the very opening paragraph this powerful and intensely exciting 
romance encnains the attention and keeps curiosity constantly active. The 
scene opens in the manufacturing center of Lyons, during a troublesome 
period in her history, when the laboring classes strove to maintain their 
rights against the nobility. The hero, whom fate has made an humble 
workman, finds opportunity for the display of those self-asserting qualities, 
which always force their possessor to the front in every contest. While 
most of the action is thrilling and dramatic, a captivating love episode is 
adroitly interwoven with the main thread of the romance. The inyster* 
appertaining to the early life of the Locksmith, the appalling accusation 
which makes him the victim of unseen foes, his fortitude in the most trying 
positions, and his final vindication and reward, are forcibly and sympatheti- 
cally set forth in this well constructed story. 



PRICE, 25 CENTS, 



STREET & SMITH, Publishers, 

F» O. Box, 2734. 31 ROSE STREET, New Yorlfr 



Sea and Shore Series 

Stories of Strange Adventure Afloat and Ashore. 

Issued Monthly. PRICE, 25 CENTS EACH. Fully Illustrate! 

The above-named series is issued in clear, large type- uniform in size with 
"The Select Series," and will consist of the most thrilling and 
ingeniously constructed stories, by popular and experienced writers in the 
field of fiction. The following books are now ready : 

No. 17— FEDORA,, founded on the famous play, of the same name, 
by Yictorien Sardou. 

No. 16-SIBALLA, THE SORCERESS, by Prof. Wm. H. Peck. 

No. 15-THE GOLDEN EAGLE, by Sylvanus Cobb, Jr. 

No. 14-THE FORTUNE-TELLER OF NEW ORLEANS, by 
Prof. Wm. Henry Peck. 

No. 13-THE IRISH MONTE CRISTO ABROAD, by Alex. 
Robertson, M. D. 

No. 12-HELD FOR RANSOM, by Lieutenant Murray. 

No. 11-THE IRISH MONTE CRISTO'S SEARCH, by Alex. 
Robertson, M. D. 

No. 10-LA TOSCA, from the celebrated play, by Yictorien 
Sardou. 

No. 9-THE MAN IN BLUE, by Mary A. Denison. 
No. 8-BEN HAMED, by Sylvanus Cobb, Jr. 
No. 7-CONFESSIONS OF LINSKA. 
No, 6 -THE MASKED LADY, by Lieutenant Murray. 
No. 5— THEODORA, from the celebrated play, by Yictorien 
Sardou. 

No. 4-THE LOCKSMITH OF LYONS, by Prof. W T m. 
Henry Peck. 

No. 3-THE BROWN PRINCESS, by Mrs. M. V. Victor. 

No. 2 -THE SILYER SHIP, by Lewis Leon. 

No. 1 -AN IRISH MONTE CRISTO. 



lor sale by all Booksellers and News Agents, or will be sent, postage 
free, to any address in the United States or Canada, on receipt of price, 
25 cents, by the publishers, 

STREET & SMITH, 

P. O. BOX 2734. 25-31 ROSE STREET, NEW YORK 



THE BEST AND BRIGHTEST I 



-*-♦-*- 



ifiSJ!®f»l 




UNANIMOUSLY ACKNOWLEDGED TO BE THE 



GREATEST STORY and SKETCH PAPER, 



► ♦ < 



FOR SALE BY ALL BOOKSELLERS AND NEWSDEALERS, 



BY MAIL, $3 A YEAR, POSTAGE EREE. 



STREET & SMITH, PUBLISHERS, 
25—31 iFLose Street, 

NEW YORK. 



TITLED AMERICANS 



A LIST OF 



WHO HAVE 



Married Foreigners of parjk 

ILLUSTRATED WITH ARMORIAL BEARINGS. 



STREKT & SMITH'S 

HAND-BOOK LIBRARY.— NO. 3 



Price SO Ooxxti 



Some Opinions of the press: 

The Ale page of this volume is not sufficiently long-, for besides all it promises it 
neglects to announce tnat there is also a list of available noblemen who have have not 
yet entered the state of matrimony, and to whom, presumably, American beauty backed 
by American gold may successfully appeal.— X Y. Herald, March 16. 

The book is remarkably complete and is valuable as a reference, in addition to be- 
ing decidedly interesting.— X Y. World, March 18. 

The book gives all the attainable facts and figures concerning rich American girls 
who have married foreigners of more or less distinction.— X. Y. Sun, March 14. 

In fact " Titled Americans" is a book that should be in the hands of each unmarried 
female in this country, and from it she should learn the glorious destiny that she may 
achieve.— M unseys \\ eekly. 

It furnishes a great deal of information, which will be valuable for reference, con- 
cerning American ladies who have married titled foreigners.— Bos, on Saturday Evening 
Gazette. 

Of course American "gentlemen" cannot "come in" when such a book is produced. 
They will have to wait until some century when women rule Europe and carry all the 
purchasable titles in their own riyrht.— Brooklyn Daily Eagle. 

Embraced in this carefully compiled book, which is vastly entertaining in its way, 
are personal sketches of all the bachelor peers of Britain. We take it that the morai of 
the work for our American maidens is, " Go thou and do likewise," and that its mission 
is to show them where and how.— Boston Times. 

Here is a volume for which young American women will be truly grateful. It con- 
tains the names of two hundred and five Amerioan girls who have married foreigners. 
This is of course very exciting reading, and will probably keep many girls awake at 
night, planning to go and do likewise.— Pittsburgh Butte in, March 15. 

"Titled Americans" is a valuable and unique work of considerable labor and ex- 
pense, and something every person in society will be interested in.— X. Y. Evening 
Telegram, March VS. 

Street & Smith have issued a rather unique book, but one that, in these days when 
titled foreigners are gobbling up and carrying off so many American belles and rich 
girls, will not be without use for reference.— Detroit Tribune. 

The only book of the kind ever published. This is an interesting and unique work 
of considerable labor and expense, and something many society people will be interested 
in, as it gives a complete record to date of all American ladies who have married titled 
foreigners, illustrated with their armorial bearings. Young ladies traveling abroad 
should not-fail to secure a copy as it will be of great assistance in regulating their heart 
strings.— Elmira Telegram. 

If anj'thing were needed to crystallize the craze of some American women for titled 
hvsbands it has been provided in this veritable hand-book for marriageable maidens 
and ambitious widows. It will doubtless be hidden away in some secret corner of the 
boudoir, or carried off in the traveling trunk across the ocean, to be consulted, 
cherished and studied : while the names of more than two hundred American women 
wh( have, successfully bunted down the titled game will arouse the envy and hasten the 
palpitation of many a husband-hunting aspirant to wedded privileges.- X. Y. Saturday 
Review, March 8. 



THE SELECT SERIES 

OF 

POPULAR AMERICAN COPYRIGHT STORIES. 

No. 47— SADIA THE ROSEBUD, by Julia Edwards 25 

Xo. 46-A MOMENT OF MADNESS, by Charles J. Bellamy 25 

No. 45-WEAKER THAN A WOMAN, by Charlotte M. Brame 25 

No. 44— A TRUE ARISTOCRAT,°by Mrs. Georgie Sheldon 25 

No. 43— TRIXY, by Mrs. Georgie Sheldon 25 

No. 42— A DEBT OF TEXGEANCE, by Mrs. E. Burke Collins. 25 

No. 41-BEAUTIFUL RIENZI, by Annie Ashmore 25 

No. 40— AT A GIRL'S MERCY, by Jean Kate Ludlum 25 

No. 39-MARJORIE DEANE, by Bertha M. Clay , 25 

No. 38- BEAUTIFUL BUT POOR, by Julia Edwards 25 

No. 37— IX LOVE'S CRUCIBLE, by Bertha M. Clay 25 

No. 36-THE GIPSY'S DAUGHTER, by Bertha M. Clay 25 

No. 35-CECTLE'S MARRIAGE, by Lucy Randall Comfort : 25 

No. 34— THE LITTLE WIDOW, by Julia Edwards 25 

No. 33-THE COUNTY FAIR, by Xeil Burgess .- 25 

No. 32 -LADY RYHOPE'S LOVER, by Emma Garrison Jones 25 

No. 31 -MARRIED FOR GOLD, by Mrs. E. Burke Collins 25 

Xo. 30-PRETTIEST OF ALL, by Julia Edwards 25 

Xo. 29— THE HEIRESS OF EGREMOXT, by Mrs. Harriet Lewis 25 

Xo. 28— A HEART'S IDOL, by Bertha 31. Clay 25 

Xo. 27— WINIFRED, by Mary Kyle Dallas 25 

Xo. 26 -FOXTELRO Y, by Francis A. Durivage 25 

Xo. 25— THE KIXG'S TALISMAN, by Sylvanus Cobb, Jr 25 

Xo. 24 -THAT DOWDY, by Mrs. Georgie Sheldon 25 

Xo. 23-DENMAN THOMPSON'S OLD HOMESTEAD 25 

Xo. 22— A HEART'S BITTERMESS. by Bertha M. Clay 25 

Xo. 21— THE LOST BRIDE, by Clara Augusta 25 

Xo. 20— IXGOMAR, by Nathan D. Unier 25 

Xo. ltt-A LATE REPENTANCE, by Mrs. Mary A. Denison 25 

Xo. 18— ROSAMOXD, by Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller 25 

Xo. 17— THE HOUSE OF SECRETS, by Mrs. Harriet Lewis 25 

Xo. 16— SIBYL'S INFLUENCE, by Mrs. Georgie Sheldon 25 

Xo. 15— THE VIRGINIA HEIRESS, by May Agnes Fleming 25 

Xo. 14— FLORENCE FALKLAND, by Burke Brentford 25 

Xo. 13— THE BRIDE ELECT, by Annie Ashmore . 25 

Xo. 12-THE PHANTOM WIFE, by Mrs. M. V. Victor 25 

Xo. 11— BADLY MATCHED, by Mrs. Helen Corwin Pierce 25 

Xo. 10— OCTAVIA'S PRIDE, by Charles T. Manners . ., 25 

Xo. 9— THE WIDOW'S WAGER, by Rose Ashleigh 25 

Xo, 8— WILL SHE WIN ] by Emma Garrison Jones 25 

X 0# 7_GRATIA'S TRIALS, by Lucy Randall Comfort 25 

Xo. 6— A STORMY WEDDING, by Mrs. Mary E. Bryan 25 

X . 5 -BRUNETTE AND BLONDE, by Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller 25 

No. 4— BONN Y JEAN, by Mrs. E. Burke Collins ... 25 

Xo. 3— VELLA VERXELL ; or. An Amazing Marriage, by Mrs. Sumner Hay den. 25 

Xo. 2— A WEDDED WIDOW, by T. W. Hanshew 25 

Xo. 1— THE SENATOR'S BRIDE, by Mrs. Alex. McVeigh xMiller 25 

These popular books are larire type editions, well printed, well bound, and 
in handsome covers. For sale by all Booksellers and Newsdealers ; or sent, 
postage free, on receipt of price, 25 cents each, by the publishers, 

STREET & SMITH. 

P. O Box 2734. 25 to 31 Rose Street, New York. 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 




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